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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/cyrsfourthreaderOOcyrerich 


After  painting  by  G.  F.  Watts,  R.A, 


SIR    GALAHAD 


Engraved  by  H.  W.  PeckwelL 


CYR'S 


Fourth   Reader 


BY 


ELLEN   M.  CYR  -p 

Author  of  the  Children's  Primer,  Children's  First  Reader, 
Children's  Second  Reader,  Children's 
Third  Reader,  etc. 


GINN  &   COMPANY 

BOSTON  •  NEW  YORK  •  CHICAGO  .  LONDON 


Copyright,  1898,  1899 
By  GINN  &  COMPANY 


ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 
211. 12 


EDUCATION  DEPT. 


GINN   &   COMPANY.  PRO- 
PRIETORS  .  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


TO 

Ruel  t>*  Smitb 

WITH  THE 
LOVE  OF  HIS  WIFE 


^39797 


PEEFAOE. 


j>»ic 


Literature  in  its  noblest  form  should  do  for  the  child 
what  it  does  for  the  man,  —  open  the  eyes  to  clearer  vision, 
and  nourish  and  inspire  the  soul. 

The  reading  book,  therefore,  has  more  direct  influence 
upon  the  character  of  the  pupil  than  any  other  text-book, 
and,  with  this  in  mind,  it  has  been  the  fundamental  purpose 
of  this  series  to  make  its  readers  familiar  with  the  best  writers 
and  their  works. 

It  has  been  deemed  best  to  continue  the  plan  of  the  previous 
books  of  the  series  and  introduce  several  central  figures.  We 
have  been  reading  and  becoming  acquainted  with  the  American 
poets  ;  now  we  enter  a  new  field  of  literature,  and  the  great 
prose  writers,  Hawthorne,  Irving,  Dickens,  and  Scott,  with  the 
English  poet  Tennyson,  shed  the  influence  of  their  characters 
and  writings  in  the  schoolroom. 

The  pupil  looks  into  their  faces  and  visits  their  homes. 
Their  early  childhood,  their  battles  with  adversity,  and  the 
influences  that  determined  the  current  of  their  lives  become 
familiar.  Then,  with  awakened  interest  and  admiration,  he 
reads  the  messages  they  have  left  behind  them. 

Characteristic  selections  from  these  authors  have  been  care- 
fully chosen  with  reference  to  the  capacity  of  the  children. 


-^  vi  8«- 

These  selections  have  been  somewhat  abridged,  but  it  has 
been  thought  wiser  to  have  them  a  little  longer  than  many 
text-books  introduce,  rather  than  to  mar  the  symmetry  and 
beauty  of  the  author's  work. 

Here  are  als6  represented  the  more  recent  writers  who  have 
won  a  place  in  the  literary  world,  thus  making  this  reading 
book  the  foundation  for  a  systematic  study  of  literature. 

In  order  to  cherish  the  true  American  spirit,  speeches  of 
some  of  our  great  statesmen  and  stories  of  loyalty  and  heroism 
have  been  introduced.  There  are  tales  of  travel  and  adventure 
to  broaden  the  mental  horizon,  and  the  imagination  finds  food 
for  fancies  in  many  of  the  prose  selections  as  well  as  in 
the  poems. 

Grateful  acknowledgment  for  copyright  matter  is  extended 
to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  for  the  use  of  extracts 
from  the  writings  of  Hawthorne,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps, 
and  Charles  Dudley  Warner ;  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
for  the  selections  from  Eugene  Field,  Thomas  Nelson  Page, 
and  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  ;  to  The  Century  Co.  for  stories 
by  Victor  Mapes  and  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford  ;  to  Roberts 
Bros,  for  poems  by  Helen  Hunt  Jackson ;  and  to  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons  for  selections  from  Bayard  Taylor ;  also 
to  the  following  authors :  Mrs.  Abby  Morton  Diaz,  Mrs. 
Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  and  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 
Ward  ;  Mr.  Henry  L.  Koopman,  Mr.  Victor  Mapes,  and  Mr. 
Charles  Dudley  Warner. 

ELLEN  M.  CYR. 


OONTEISTTS. 

Pagb 

The  Maple-Tree's  Children.     Abhy  Morton  Diaz      ...  1 

The  Frolic  of  the  Leaves.     Harry  L.  Koopman      ...  5 

Jackanapes  and  the  Pony.     Juliana  Horatia  Ewing     .     ,  8 

How  THE  Cliff  was  Clad.     Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  ...  16 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 21 

April.     Helen  Hunt  Jackson 29 

The  Snow-Image.     Nathaniel  Hawthorne 30 

A  Brave  Boy.     Thomas  Nelson  Page 43 

The  Little  Post-Boy.     Bayard  Taylor 62 

The  Wind  and  the  Moon.      George  MacDonald    ....  64 

The  Mouse  and  the  Moonbeam.     Eugene  Field  ....  67 

The  Story  of  Florinda.     Ahhy  Morton  Diaz 79 

The  Fate  of  the  Indians.      Charles  Sprague 90 

Charles  Dickens 92 

The  Dolls'  Dressmaker.      Charles  Dickens 100 

A  Story  of  the  Flag.      Victor  Mapes 108 

A  Welcome  to  Lafayette.     Edward  Everett 116 

The  National  Flag.     Charles  Sumner 117 

Alfred  Tennyson 120 

Sir  Galahad.     Alfred  Tennyson 127 

Little  Rosalie.     Harriet  Frescott  Spofford 129 

Down  to  Sleep.     Helen  Hunt  Jackson 142 

The  Shipwreck.     Charles  Dickens 144 

Maggie  Tulliver  and  the  Gypsies.     George  Eliot  .     .     .  152 

The  Shell.     Alfred  Tennyson 168 

The  Two  Herd-Boys.     Bayard  Taylor 169 


Incident  of  the  French  Camp.     Robert  Browning  ,     .     ,  180 

Mary  Elizabeth.     Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 183 

The  Old  War  Horse  tells  his  Story.     Anna  Sewall      ,  195 

Washington  Irving 202 

Kip  Van  Winkle.      Washington  Irving 209 

Pocahontas.      William  Makepeace  Thackeray 227 

Eain  in  the  GrARRET.     Donald  Grant  Mitchell       ....  229 

The  Sea  Voyage.     Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 235 

Will  o'  the  Mill.     Robert  Louis  Stevenson 245 

The  Cloud.     Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 255 

Tom,  the  Water  Bapy,  makes  Friends.    Charles  Kingsley  257 

The  Sugar  Camp.     Charles  Dudley  Warner 268 

Spring.     Henry  Timrod 275 

Sir  Walter  Scott 277 

Walter  Kaleigh  meets  Queen  Elizabeth.    Sir  Walter  Scott  286 

Lincoln's  Gettysburg  Speech 295 

The  Lord  of  Butrago.     John  C.  Lockhart 298 

Death  of  Jackanapes.     Juliana  Horatia  Evnng  ....  300 

Washington's  Address  to  his  Troops 308 

Heigho,  My  Dearie.     Eugene  Field 310 

The  Light-Born  Messenger.     Hall  Caine 311 

The  Little  Land.     Robert  Louis  Stevenson 320 

Eolf's  Leap.     Georgiana  M.  Craik 323 

The  Bugle  Song.     Alfred  Tennyson 331 

His  Word  of  Honor 332 

John  Eidd's  Adventure.     R.  D.  Blackmore 343 

The  Coast  Guard.     Emily  Huntington  Miller 354 

Football  at  Eugby.     Thomas  Hughes 356 

The  Encounter  with  the  Panther.   James  Fenimore  Cooper  367 

Word  List 376 


CYR'S  FOURTH  READER 


»     »  *       » 


CYR'S    FOURTH    READER. 


»o>»<oo 

^     '     »»    »      ->  ■>. 

THE  MAPLE  TREE»S  CHILDREN. 

By  ABBY  MORTON  DIAZ. 

Abby  Morton  Diaz  was  born  at  Plymouth,  Mass.,  in  1821. 
The  little  girl  was  allowed  to  live  out  of  doors,  a  free,  happy  life, 
wandering  about  the  ship-yards,  and  playing  upon  the  beach  to  her 
heart's  content.  She  was  very  fond  of  playing  with  other  children, 
and  often  invented  games,  making  songs  to  fit  them. 

When  this  play  season  was  over,  she  became  fond  of  study,  and 
began  writing  a  little  for  children.  She  was  full  of  music,  and 
would  gather  children  about  her  and  teach  them  to  sing. 

When  her  first  story  for  children  appeared  in  print  she  was 
almost  ashamed  to  have  her  friends  see  it,  for  it  seemed  to  her 
that  nothing  of  her  own  was  worth  publishing. 

The  story  was  well  received,  however,  and  followed  by  many 
others,  which  are  full  of  nature,  imagination,  and  fun. 

She  lives  near  Boston,  and  is  interested  at  present  in  writing  for 
older  people. 

shiv'ermg  murtitud^s  des'olate 

pre  sent'ed  thrush'es  pres'ent  If 

1.  A  Maple  Tkee  awoke  at  springtime,  shivering  in 
the  east  winds.  "  0  Mother  Nature/'  she  said,  "  I  tremble 
with  oold.     Behold  my  limbs,  ugly  and  bare.     The  birds 


-•8  2  St- 
are all  coming  back  from  the  South,  and  I  would  look  my 
best.     They  will  soon  be  building  their  nests.    0,  a  bird's- 
nest  does  make  a  tree  so  pleasant !     But  they  will  not 
come  to  me,  because  I  have  no  leaves  to  hide  them ! " 

2.  And  kind  Mother  Nature  smiled,  and  presented  her 
(laughter  Maple  with  such  multitudes  of  leaves !  More 
than  you  could  count!  These  gave  beauty  to  the  tree, 
besides  keeping  the  rain  out  of  the  bird's-nests.  For  birds 
had  quickly  come  to  build  there,  and  there  was  reason  to 
expect  a  lively  summer. 

3.  A  happy  Maple  Tree  now  was  she,  and  well  pleased 
with  her  pretty  green  leaves.  They  were  so  beautiful  in 
the  sunlight;  and  the  winds  whispered  such  sweet  things 
to  them  as  to  make  them  dance  for  joy !  A  pair  of  golden 
robins  had  a  home  there,  and  thrushes  came  often.  Sun- 
shine and  song  all  day  long!  Or  if  the  little  leaves 
became  hot  and  thirsty  in  the  summer's  heat,  good  Mother 
Nature  gave  them  cooling  rain-drops  to  drink.  A  happier 
Maple  Tree  could  nowhere  be  found. 

4.  "Thanks!  thanks,  Mother  Nature,'' she  said,  "  for 
all  your  care  and  your  loving  kindness  to  me! " 

But  when  autumn  came  with  its  gloomy  skies  and  its 
chilling  winds,  the  Maple  Tree  grew  sad,  for  she  heard 
her  little  leaves  saying  to  each  other,  "  We  are  going  to 
die !     We  are  going  to  die  ! " 

People  living  near  said,  "  Hark  1     Do  you  hear  the 


-4639^ 

wind?  It  sounds  like  fall."  Nobody  told  them  it  was 
the  leaves,  all  over  the  forest,  saying  to  each  other,  "  We 
are  going  to  die  !     We  are  going  to  die  !  " 

"  My  dear  little  leaves  1 "  sighed  the  Maple  Tree. 
"Poor  things,  they  must  go!  Ah,  how  sad  to  see  them 
droop  and  fade  away ! " 


A  WOODLAND  SCENE 


1^6.  "I  will  make  their  death  beautiful,"  said  kind 
Mother  Nature.  And  she  changed  their  color  to  a -scarlet, 
which  glowed  in  the  sunlight  like  fire. 

And  every  one  said,  "  How  beautiful ! " 

And  one  cold  morning  she  stood  with  her  limbs  all 


bare,  looking  very  desolate.  The  bright  leaves  lay  heaped 
about  her. 

"Dear,  pretty  things!  "  she  said.  ''How  I  shall  miss 
them!  They  were  such  a  comfort !  And  how  ugly  I  am! 
Nobody  will  care  for  me  now !  " 

But  presently  a  flock  of  school-girls  came  along,  talking 
cheerily  of  ferns,  red  berries,  and  autumn  leaves. 

6.  "And  I  think,"  said  one,  "that  there's  a  great  deal 
of  beauty  in  a  tree  without  any  leaves  at  all." 

"So  do  I,"  said  another.  "Just  look  up  through  this 
tree.  Its  branches  and  boughs  and  twigs  make  a  picture 
against  the  sky  !  " 

And  the  lively  school-girls  passed  on. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Maple  Tree,  "  this  will  at  least  be 
pleasant  to  dream  about!  " 

For  she  already  felt  her  winter  s  nap  coming  on.  If 
she  could  but  have  heard  what  her  little  leaves  said  to 
each  other  afterwards,  down  there  on  the  ground ! 

7.  "  Dear  old  tree  !  She  has  taken  care  of  us  all  our 
lives,  and  fed  us,  and  held  us  up  to  the  sun,  and  been  to 
us  a  kind  mother,  and  now  we  will  do  something  for  her. 
We  will  get  under  ground  and  turn  ourselves  into  food  to 
feed  her  with,  for  she  '11  be  sure  to  wake  up  hungry  after 
her  long  nap  !  " 

8.  Good  little  things  !  The  rains  helped  them,  and  the 
winds, — in  this  way :  the  rains  beat  them  into  the  ground, 


and  the  winds  blew  sand  over  them,  and  there  they  turned 
themselves  into  something  very  nice  for  the  old  Maple 
Tree,  —  something  good  to  take. 

And  now,  as  she  wakes  up  again  in  the  spring  and 
takes  a  full  meal  of  it,  she  is  once  more  lively  and  happy, 
and  many  fresh  young  leaves  unfold  to  clothe  her  limbs. 


THE  FROLIC  OF  THE  LEAVES. 

By  harry  L.  KOOPMAN. 

az'ure  implor'mg  swath' ing 

green'sward  scam'permg  crooned 

The  leaves  of  the  elm  and  the  maple 
First  opened  their  wondering  eyes 
Under  the  bending  beauty 
Of  the  azure  April  skies. 

They  drank  in  the  warmth  of  springtime, 
They  threw  off  their  swatliing  bands. 
And  reached  out  into  the  sunlight 
Their  pink,  imploring  hands. 

They  were  rocked  in  the  arms  of  summer, 
While  wandering  winds  above 
Crooned  a  low  lullaby  to  them 
In  murmuring  music  of  love. 


But  the  drowsy  charm  of  the  west  wind 
The  leaves  threw  off  ere  long, 
For  they  heard  in  the  blue  above  them 
The  bright  birds'  tempting  song. 

And  beneath  them  they  saw  the  greensward 
With  its  beckoning  blooms,  and  they  sighed 
To  be  out  of  the  lonely  tree-top 
Into  the  world  so  wide. 

At  last,  after  watching  and  waiting, 
Autumn,  the  beautiful,  came 
Stepping  with  sandals  of  silver. 
Decked  with  a  mantle  of  flame. 

Then   Nature,  the   loving  mother, 
In  the  moony  month  of  sheaves, 
Arrayed  in  yellow  and  crimson 
Her  children,  the  forest  leaves. 

The  leaves  clapped  their  hands,  delighted, 
And  shouted  loud  in  their  glee. 
They  sprang  on  the  back  of  the  north  wind, 
Which  lifted  and  set  them  free. 

Ha!  'Twas  a  glorious  riding 
As  they  leaped  along  with  the  blast, 
Frisking  along  over  fences. 
Scampering  gaily  and  fast. 


-»8  7  8<- 


A  WINTER  VIEW 


So  sped  they.     At  last  the  north  wind 
Began  to  grow  chill  and  bleak ; 
Their  dresses  were  torn  and  faded, 
Their  feet  were  weary  and  weak. 

So  Nature,  the  loving  mother, 
Who  had  watched  them  with  many  fears, 
Laid  them  to  rest  on  the  brown  earth 
She  had  softened  with  her  tears. 

Then  covered  them  tenderly,  softly, 
With  snow  blankets,  warm  and  deep, — 
Her  children,  tired  of  playing, 
And  weary,  and  full  of  sleep. 


JACKANAPES  AND  THE   PONY. 

By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 

This  charming  selection  is  taken  from  "  Jackanapes/'  a  quaint 
and  interesting  story  for  children.  It  was  written  by  Mrs.  Ewing, 
who  died  in  1885,  at  the  age  of  forty-four.  The  writings  of  this 
lady,  who  contributed  so  extensively  to  English  juvenile  literature, 
under  the  name  of  "Aunt  Judy,"  have  become  popular  in  America 
as  well  as  in  her  own  country.  "  Jackanapes ''  is  her  best  literary 
work  and  made  her  name  famous.  The  book  as  a  whole  is  delightful 
reading. 

co'coa  nut  wsiist' coats  mis'chiei 

(5p  por  tu'ni  ty  be  hav'ipr  mil'i  ta  ry 

(y) 
con  fi  dSn^tial  \y 

(shf 

1.  It  was  after  the  Fair  that  Jackanapes,  out  rambling 
by  himself,  was  knocked  over  by  the  Gypsy's  son  riding 
the  Gypsy's  red-haired  pony  at  breakneck  pace  across  the 
common. 

Jackanapes  got  up  and  shook  himself,  none  the  worse 
except  for  being  heels  over  head  in  love  with  the  red- 
haired  pony.  What  a  rate  he  .went  at !  How  he  spumed 
the  ground  with  his  nimble  feet!  How  his  red  coat 
shone  in  the  sunshine !  And  what  bright  eyes  peeped 
out  of  his  dark  forelock  as  it  was  blown  by  the  wind ! 

2.  The  Gypsy  boy  was  willing  enough  to  reward  Jack- 


anapes  for  not  having  been  hurt,  by  consenting  to  let 
him  have  a  ride. 

"Do  you  mean  to  kill  the  little  fine  gentleman?" 
screamed  the  Grypsy  mother,  who  came  up  just  as  Jack- 
anapes and  the  pony  set  off. 

"  He  would  get  on/'  replied  her  son.  "  It  '11  not  kill 
him.  He  '11  fall  on  his  yellow  head,  and  it 's  as  tough  as 
a  cocoanut." 

3.  But  Jackanapes  did  not  fall.  He  stuck  to  the  red- 
haired  pony ;  but,  oh,  the  delight  of  this  wild  gallop  with 
flesh  and  blood  !  Just  as  his  legs  were  beginning  to  feel 
as  if  he  did  not  feel  them,  the  Gypsy  boy  cried,  "  LoUo ! " 
Round  went  the  pony. 

Jackanapes  clung  to  his  neck;  and  he  did  not  properly 
recover  himself  before  Lollo  stopped  with  a  jerk,  at  the 
place  where  they  had  started. 

4.  "Is  his  name  Lollo  ?  "  asked  Jackanapes,  his  hand 
lingering  in  the  wiry  mane. 

"Yes."  ^ow 

"•  What  does  Lollo  mean  ? 

"Red."  .cit?" 

"  Is  Lollo  your  pony  ?  "  4at  twopence 

"No.     My  father's."     And  the  Gv^^thing  you  can't, 
away.  -^Ive,  ten,  and  carry 

5.  At  the  first  opportunity  Ja'  when  I  ask  you.     One 
to  the  common.     This  time  h^row   twenty.     One    from 


-»9  lo  8«- 

"  Lollo  is  your  pony,  is  n't  jbe  ?  "  said  Jackanapes. 

"Yes." 

"He 's  a  very  nice  one." 

"He's  a  racer." 

"  You  don't  want  to  sell  him,  do  you  ?  " 

6.  "Fifteen  pounds,"  said  the  Gypsy  father;  and  Jack- 
anapes sighed  and  went  home  again.  That  very  after- 
noon he  and  Tony  rode  the  two  donkeys;  and  Tony 
managed  to  get  thrown,  and  even  Jackanapes'  donkey 
kicked.  But  it  was  jolting,  clumsy  work  after  the  elastic 
swiftness  and  the  dainty  mischief  of  the  red-haired  pony. 

7.  A  few  days  later,  Miss  Jessamine  spoke  very  seri- 
ously to  Jackanapes.  She  told  him  that  his  grandfather, 
the  General,  was  coming  to  the  Green,  and  that  he  must 
be  on  his  very  best  behavior  during  the  visit. 

What  mischief  could  be  foreseen.  Jackanapes  prom- 
ised to  guard  against.  He  was  to  keep  his  clothes  and 
his  hands  clean,  not  to  put  sticky  things  in  his  pockets, 
coiiae  sure  to  say  "  sir  "  to  the  General,  and  to  be  careful 

Jackaxbbing  his  shoes  on  the  door-mat.  The  General 
except  foind  for  the  first  day  all  went  well, 
haired  pony.  x)es  began  to  feel  at  ease  with  his  grand- 
the  ground  witn^d  to  talk  confidentially  with  him,  as 
shone  in  the  sunshiAnnan.  All  that  the  General  felt,  it 
out  of  his  dark  forelock  %n  5  but  he  was  disposed  to  talk 

2.  The  Gypsy  boy  was  ^\>,pes. 


-»8  1 1  8«- 

"  A  pretty  place  this/'  he  said,  looking  out  of  the  lattice 
on  to  the  Green,  where  the  grass  was  vivid  with  sunset 
and  the  shadows  were  long  and  peaceful. 

9.  "  You  should  see  it  in  Fair  week,  sir,"  said  Jack- 
anapes, shaking  his  yellow  mop,  and  leaning  back  in  his 
one  of  the  two  arm-chairs  in  which  they  sat. 

"A  fine  time  that,  eh?"  said  the  General,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Jackanapes  shook  his  hair  once  more.  "  I  enjoyed  this 
last  one  the  best  of  all,"  he  said.    "  I  'd  so  much  money." 

"Indeed,  it's  not  a  common  complaint  in  these  bad 
times.     How  much  had  ye  ?  " 

"  I  'd  two  shillings.  A  new  shilling  aunty  gave  me, 
and  elevenpence  I  had  saved  up,  and  a  penny  from  the 
postman." 

10.  "  You  don't  want  money  except  at  Fair  times,  I 
suppose  ?  "  said  the  General. 

Jackanapes  shook  his  head. 

"  If  I  could  have  as  much  as  I  want,  I  should  know 
what  to  buy,"  said  he. 

"And  how  much  do  you  want,  if  you  could  get  it  ?  " 

11.  "Wait  a  minute,  sir,  till  I  think  what  twopence 
from  fifteen  pounds  leaves.  Two  from  nothing  you  can't, 
but  borrow  twelve.  Two  from  twelve,  ten,  and  carry 
one.  Please  remember  ten,  sir,  when  I  ask  you.  One 
from   nothing    you    can't,   borrow   twenty.     One    from 


-»e  12  8«- 

twenty,  nineteen,  and  carry  one.  One  from  fifteen,  four- 
teen. Fourteen  pounds  nineteen  and — what  did  I  tell 
you  to  remember  ?  " 

12.  "  Ten,"  said  the  General. 

"Fourteen  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  tenpence, 
then,  is  what  I  want,"  said  Jackanapes. 


JACKANAPES   AND  THE   OLD   GENERAL 


"All  that  money!  what  for  ?  " 

"  To  buy  Lollo  with.  The  Gypsy's  red-haired  pony, 
sir.  Oh,  he  is  beautiful !  You  should  see  his  coat  in  the 
sunshine!  You  should  see  his  mane!  You  should  see  his 
tail !     Such  little  feet,  sir,  and  they  go  like  lightning  I 


-^  13  9^ 

Such  a  dear  face,  too,  and  eyes  like  a  mouse  !     But  he  's 
a  racer,  and  the  Gypsy  wants  fifteen  pounds  for  him." 

13.  "If  he's  a  racer  you  couldn't  ride  him.     Could 

you?" 

"  No — o,  sir,  but  I  can  stick  to  him.  I  did  the  other 
day." 

"  Indeed  you  did  !  Well,  I  'm  fond  of  riding  myself  ; 
and  if  the  beast  is  as  good  as  you  say,  he  might  suit  me." 

"  You  're  too  tall  for  Lollo,  I  think,"  said  Jackanapes, 
measuring  his  grandfather  with  his  eye. 

"  I  can  double  up  my  legs,  I  suppose.  We  '11  have  a 
look  at  him  to-morrow." 

"  Don't  you  weigh  a  good  deal?"  asked  Jackanapes. 

"  Chiefly  waistcoats,"  said  the  General,  slapping  the 
breast  of  his  military  frock  coat.  "  We  '11  have  the  little 
racer  on  the  Green  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Glad 
you  mentioned  it,  grandson;  glad  you  mentioned  it." 

14.  The  General  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Next  morning 
the  Gypsy  and  Lollo,  Miss  Jessamine,  Jackanapes  and  his 
grandfather  and  his  dog  Spitfire  were  all  gathered  at  one 
end  of  the  Green  in  a  group.  The  General  talked  to  the 
Gypsy,  and  Jackanapes  fondled  Lollo's  mane,  and  did  not 
know  whether  he  should  be  more  glad  or  miserable  if  his 
grandfather  bought  him. 

"  Jackanapes ! " 
"Yes,  sir!" 


-»8  148«- 

"IVe  bought  Lollo,  but  I  believe  you  were  right. 
He  hardly  stands  high  enough  for  me.  If  you  can 
ride  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  Green,  I'll  give  him 
to  you." 

15.  How  Jackanapes  tumbled  on  to  LoUo's  back  he 
never  knew.  He  had  just  gathered  up  the  reins  when 
the  Gypsy  father  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  If  you  want  to  make  Lollo  go  fast,  my  little  gentle- 
man —  " 

"  I  can  make  him  go !  "  said  Jackanapes  ;  and  drawing 
from  his  pocket  the  trumpet  he  had  bought  in  the  Fair, 
he  blew  a  blast  both  loud  and  shrill. 

Away  went  Lollo,  and  away  went  Jackanapes'  hat. 
Away  went  Spitfire,  mad  with  the  rapture  of  the  race 
and  the  wind  in  his  silky  ears. 

Jackanapes  and  Lollo  rode  back.  Spitfire  panting 
behind. 

16.  "  Good,  my  little  gentleman,  good ! "  said  the 
Gypsy.  "You  were  born  to  the  saddle.  You've  the  flat 
thigh,  the'  strong  knee,  the  wiry  back,  and  the  light, 
caressing  hand;  all  you  want  is  to  learn  the  whisper. 
Come  here ! " 

"What  was  that  fellow,  talking  about,  grandson?" 
asked  the  General. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  sir.     It's  a  secret." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  window  again,  in  the  two  arm- 


chairs,  the  General  watching  every  line  of  his  grandson's 
face. 

"  You  must  love  your  aunt  very  much,  Jackanapes." 

"  I  do,  sir,"  said  Jackanapes,  warmly. 

"  And  whom  do  you  love  next  best  to  your  aunt  ?  " 

17.  The  ties  of  blood  were  pressing  very  strongly  on 
the  General  himself,  and  perhaps  he  thought  of  LoUo. 
But  love  is  not  bought  in  a  day,  even  with  fourteen 
pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  tenpence.  Jackanapes 
answered  quite  readily,  "  The  postman." 

"  Why  the  postman  ?  " 

"  He  knew  my  father,"  said  Jackanapes,  "  and  he  tells 
me  about  him  and  about  his  black  mare.  My  father  was 
a  soldier,  a  brave  soldier.  He  died  at  Waterloo.  When 
I  grow  up  I  want  to  be  a  soldier  too." 

"  So  you  shall,  my  boy  ;  so  you  shall." 

18.  "Thank  you,  grandfather.  Aunty  doesn't  want 
me  to  be  a  soldier,  for  fear  of  being  killed." 

"  Bless  my  life  !  Would  she  have  you  get  into  a  feather- 
bed and  stay  there  ?  Why,  you  might  be  killed  by  a 
thunderbolt  if  you  were  a  butter  merchant !  " 

"  So  I  might.  I  shall  tell  her  so.  What  a  funny  fellow 
you  are,  sir!  I  say,  do  you  think  my  father  knew  the 
Gypsy's  secret  ?  The  postman  says  he  used  to  whisper  to 
his  black  mare." 

19.  "  Your  father  was  taught  to  ride,  as  a  child,  by  one 


of  those  horsemen  of  the  East  who  swoop  and  dart  and 
wheel  about  a  plain  like  swallows  in  autumn.  Grandson ! 
love  me  a  little  too.  I  can  tell  you  more  about  your 
father  than  the  postman  can." 

"  I  do  love  you,"  said  Jackanapes,  "  and  I  '11  try  to  be 
very  good ;  but  I  want  to  be  a  soldier." 

"  You  shall,  my  boy,  you  shall.  Cavalry,  I  suppose. 
Well  —  well  —  if  you  live' to  be  an  honor  to  your  coun- 
try, this  old  heart  shall  grow  young  again  with  pride  for 
you;  and  if  you  die  in  the  service  of  your  country — it 
can  but  break  for  you." 


ra  vine 


HOW  THE  CLIFF  WAS  CLAD. 

By  BJORNSTJERNE  BJORNSON. 

'  ioT'eign  ex  am'ined 


boarder  ere  v' 196  as  ton'ish  ment 

1.  Between"  two  cliffs  lay  a  deep  ravine,  with  a  full 
stream  rolling  heavily  through  it  over  boulders  and  rough 
ground.  It  was  high  and  steep,  and  one  side  was  bare, 
save  at  the  foot,  where  clustered  a  thick,  fresh  wood,  so 
close  to  the  stream  that  the  mist  from  the  water  lay  upon 
the  foliage  in  spring  and  autumn.  The  trees  stood  look- 
ing upwards  and  forwards,  unable  to  move  either  way. 

2.  "What  if  we  were  to  clothe  the  Cliff?"  said  the 


-»6  17  3«- 

Juniper  one  day  to  the  foreign  Oak  that  stood  next  him. 
The  Oak  looked  down  to  find  out  who  was  speaking,  and 
then  looked  up  again  without  answering  a  word.  The 
Stream'  worked  so  hard  that  it  grew  white ;  the  North- 
wind  rushed  through  the  ravine  ;  and  the  bare  Cliff  hung 
heavily  over  and  felt  cold. 

"  What  if  we  were  to  clothe  the  Cliff  ?  "  said  the  Juni- 
per to  the  Fir  on  the  other  side. 

3.  "  Well,  if  anybody  is  to  do  it,  I  suppose  we  must/' 
replied  the  Fir,  stroking  his  beard;  "what  dost  thou 
think  ?  "  he  added,  looking  over  to  the  Birch. 

"  In  God's  name,  let  us  clothe  it,"  answered  the  Birch, 
glancing  timidly  towards  the  Cliff,  which  hung  over  her 
so  heavily  that  she  felt  as  if  she  could  scarcely  breathe. 
And  thus,  although  they  were  but  three,  they  agreed  to 
clothe  the  Cliff.     The  Juniper  went  first. 

4.  When  they  had  gone  a  little  way  they  met  the 
Heather.  The  Juniper  seemed  as  though  he  meant  to 
pass  her  by.  "  Nay,  let  us  take  the  Heather  with  us," 
said  the  Fir.  So  on  went  the  Heather.  Soon  the  Juni- 
per began  to  slip.  "  Lay  hold  on  me,"  said  the  Heather. 
The  Juniper  did  so,  and  where  there  was  only  a  little 
crevice  the  Heather  put  in  one  finger,  and  where  she  had 
got  in  one  finger  the  Juniper  put  in  his  whole  hand. 
They  crawled  and  climbed,  the  Fir  heavily  behind  with 
the  Birch.     "  It  is  a  work  of  charity,"  said  the  Birch. 


-*»8  18  9«- 

5.  But  the  Cliff  began  to  ponder  what  little  things 
these  could  be  that  came  clambering  up  it.  And  when 
it  had  thought  over  this  a  few  hundred  years,  it  sent 
down  a  little  Brook  to  see  about  it.  It  was.  just 
spring  flood,  and  the  Brook  rushed  on  till  she  met  the 
Heather. 

"  Dear,  dear  Heather,  canst  thou  not  let  me  pass  ?  I 
am  so  little,"  said  the  Brook.  The  Heather,  being  very 
busy,  only  raised  herself  a  little,  and  worked  on.  The 
Brook  slipped  under  her,  and  ran  onwards. 

"  Dear,  dear  Juniper,  canst  thou  not  let  me  pass  ?  I  am 
so  little,"  said  the  Brook. 

6.  The  Juniper  glanced  sharply  at  her;  but  as  the 
Heather  had  let  her  pass,  he  thought  he  might  do  so  as 
well.  The  Brook  slipped  under  him,  and  ran  on  till  she 
came  where  the  Fir  stood  panting  on  a  crag. 

"  Dear,  dear  Fir,  canst  thou  not  let  me  pass  ?  I  am  so 
little,"  the  Brook  said,  fondly  kissing  the  Fir  on  his  foot. 
The  Fir  felt  bashful  and  let  her  pass.  But  the  Birch 
made  way  before  the  Brook  asked. 

"  He,  he,  he,"  laughed  the  Brook,  as  she  grew  larger. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,"  laughed  the  Brook  again,  pushing 
Heather  and  Juniper,  Fir  and  Birch,  forwards  and  back- 
wards, up  and  down  on  the  great  crags. 

7.  It  was  clear  the  Cliff  did  not  wish  to  be  clad.  The 
Heather  felt  so  vexed  that  she  turned  green  again,  and 


-»8  19  &- 

then  she  went  on.     "Nevermind;  take  courage!"   said 
the  Heather. 

The  Juniper  sat  up  to  look  at  the  Heather,  and  at 
last  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  scratched  his  head,  and  then 
he  too  went  on  again,  and  clutched  so  firmly,  that  he 


HIGH    AND   STEEP   CUFFS   CLAD   WITH   TREES 


thought  the  ClifE  could  not  help  feeling  it.     "  If  thou  wilt 
not  take  me,  then  I  will  take  thee,"  said  he. 

8.  The  Fir  bent  his  toes  a  little  to  feel  if  they  were 
whole,  lifted  one  foot,  which  he  found  all  right,  then  the 
other,  which  was  all  right  too,  and  then  both  feet.  He 
first  examined  the  path  he  had  come,  then  where  he  had 
been  lying,  and  at  last  where  he  had  to  go.  Then  he 
strode  onwards,  just  as  though  he  had  never  fallen.     The 


-«  20  8«- 

Birch  had  been  splashed  very  badly,  but  now  she  got  up 
and  made  herself  tidy. 

And  so  they  went  rapidly  on,  upwards  and  sideways, 
in  sunshine  and  rain. 

"But  what  in  the  world  is  all  this?"  said  the  Cliff, 
when  the  summer  sun  shone,  the  dewdrops  glittered,  the 
birds  sang,  the  woodmouse  squeaked,  the  hare  bounded, 
and  the  weasel  hid  and  screamed  among  the  trees. 

9.  Then  the  day  came  when  the  Heather  could  peep 
over  the  Cliffs  edge. 

"  0  dear  me  ! "  said  she,  and  over  she  went.  "  What 
is  it  the  Heather  sees,  dear  ?  "  said  the  Juniper,  and  came 
forwards  till  he,  too,  could  peep  over. 

"Dear  me!"  he  cried,  and  over  he  went.  "What's 
the  matter  with  the  Juniper  to-day  ?"  said  the  Fir,  taking 
long  strides  in  the  hot  sun.  Soon  he,  too,  by  standing  on 
tiptoe  could  peep  over. 

10.  "  Ah !  "  —  every  branch  and  prickle  stood  on  end 
with  astonishment.  He  strode  onwards,  and  over  he 
went. 

"  What  is  it  they  all  see,  and  not  I  ?  "  said  the  Birch. 

"  Ah ! "  said  she,  putting  her  head  over,  "  there  is  a 
whole  forest,  both  of  Fir  and  Heather,  and  Juniper  and 
Birch,  waiting  for  us  on  the  plain ; "  and  her  leaves  trem- 
bled in  the  sunshine  till  the  dewdrops  fell.  "  This  comes 
of  reaching  forwards,"  said  the  Juniper. 


-»6  21  8<- 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

ad  ven^tures  rec'og  nized 

cem^e  ter  y  piib  li  caption 

(sh) 

dic'tion  a  ry  qui^e  tude 

grad  u  a'tion  6  rig-'i  nal 

^  (8h)  ^ 

1.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  July  i,  1804,  in 
the  quaint  old  town  of  Salem,  Mass.  His  birthplace  was 
near  the  sea,  and  the  house  is  still  standing.  His  father 
was  a  sea  captain.  He  was  a  great  reader,  and  spent  the 
leisure  on  his  voyages  with  his  books.  Hawthorne's  mother 
was  a  beautiful  woman  with  a  sweet  and  pure  nature. 


-)8  22  8«^ 

Captain  Hawthorne  died  when  Nathaniel  was  but  four 
years  old,  and  his  Grandfather  Manning  took  the  family 
to  his  home.  There  were  uncles  and  aunts,  and  they 
were  very  fond  of  the  golden-haired  boy  and  his  two 
sisters. 

2.  Nathaniel  showed  a  fondness  for  reading  when  very 
young,  and  chose  many  of  the  best  authors.  When  he 
was  six  years  old  his  favorite  book  was  Bunyan's  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress";  and  whenever  he  went  to  visit  his 
Grandmother  Hawthorne,  he  used  to  take  the  large 
family  copy  to  an  armchair  near  the  window  and  read  it 
by  the  hour.  His  imagination  was  active,  and  he  used  to 
tell  long  stories  of  the  strange  adventures  and  wonderful 
things  he  was  to  have  when  he  should  be  a  man. 

His  uncle,  Robert  Manning,  took  charge  of  the  future 
author's  education,  sending  him  to  the  best  schools,  and 
afterwards  to  college.  When  he  was  nine  years  old,  he 
lamed  his  foot  at  a  game  of  ball.  It  was  slow  in  gaining 
strength,  and  he  was  obliged  to  use  crutches. 

During  this  time,  his  teacher,  Mr.  Joseph  Worcester, 
the  author  of  the  dictionary,  used  to  come  to  his  house 
every  evening  to  hear  his  lessons.  He  amused  himself, 
while  confined  to  the  house,  with  publishing  a  little  news- 
paper, which  he  printed  with  his  own  hand. 

3.  When  Nathaniel  was  eight  or  nine  years  old  his 
mother  took   her   three  children   to    Raymond,  Me.,  on 


"•jq  ^o  y^ 

the  banks  of  Sebago  Lake.  Here  the  boy  lived  a  free 
out-of-door  life,  and  formed  liis  habits  of  solitude.  "I 
lived  in  Maine/'  he  said,  "  like  a  bird  of  the  air,  so  perfect 
was  the  freedom  I  enjoyed." 

He  would  skate  alone  in  the  moonlight  upon  Sebago 
Lake,  and  often,  when  tired,  would  rest  in  some  wood- 
cutter's cabin,  warming  himself  by  the  huge  fireplace. 
The  deep  silence  and  dark  shadows  of  the  pine  forests 
along  the  lake  shore  must  have  filled  his  mind  with 
strange  pictures  and  weird  fancies. 

In  the  summer  time,  he  would  fish  all  day  or  go  hunting, 
armed  with  an  old  fowling-piece.  Those  were  delightful 
days ;  but  by  and  by  his  mother  decided  that  her  boy  must 
learn  something  more  than  he  got  from  this  wild  life,  and 
Nathaniel  was  sent  back  to  Salem  to  prepare  for  college. 

4.  In  1821  he  entered  Bowdoin  College.  There  he  led 
a  happy  life,  having  among  his  college  mates  the  poet 
Longfellow  and  Franklin  Pierce,  afterward  President  of 
the  United  States.  It  was  while  in  college  that  he 
decided  to  become  an  author.  He  had  written  verses 
some  years  before,  but  they  had  not  much  merit. 

After  his  graduation  he  returned  to  Salem.  There  he 
spent  many  hours  in  writing  and  taking  long  walks  by 
himself.  His  thoughts  and  fancies  were  busy  as  he 
roamed  about,  and  much  of  the  beauty  of  his  writings  is 
due  to  these  solitary  rambles. 


-«96  24  8«*- 


5.  A  lady,  who  was  the  Annie  in  "Little  Annie's 
Ramble,"  in  "  Twice  Told  Tales,"  remembers  Hawthorne 
when  he  returned  from  Bowdoin  College. 

She  was  a  little  girl  and  used  to  sit  on  his  knee, 
listening  to  stories  more  wonderful  and  beautiful  than 
any  she  had  ever  read  in  any  of  her  fairy  books. 

In  1837  Hawthorne 
published  a  number  of 
his  stories,  under  the 
title  of  "Twice  Told 
Tales."  This  book  at- 
tracted but  little  atten- 
tion from  the  public, 
although  his  genius  was 
recognized  by  some. 

His  old  classmate, 
Mr.  Longfellow,  was 
much  impressed  by 
them  and  praised  them 
highly.  Hawthorne,  however,  was  so  modest,  sensitive, 
and  retiring  that  he  was  unwilling  to  thrust  himself  for- 
ward, and  published  nothing  more  for  a  number  of  years. 
These  two  modest  little  volumes  of  sketches  established 
Hawthorne's  reputation  as  one  of  the  most  original 
authors  of  our  time. 

6.  In  1842  he  was  married  to  Sophia  Peabody,  and 


NORTH    BRIDGE.  CONCORD   BATTLEFIELD,  NEAR 
THE   "OLD    MANSE  " 


-»6  25  9^ 

they  went  to  Concord,  where  they  lived  in  the  ^^Old 
Manse/'  a  famous  homestead  near  the  Concord  battlefield. 
He  and  his  wife  were  very  happy  in  this  quiet  old  farm- 
house, enjoying  together  the  rural  life,  and  seeing  only  a 
few  friends,  among  them  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

Their  days  glided  by  as  peacefully  as  the  gentle  Concord 
River,  which  flowed  at  the  foot  of  the  meadow  behind  the 
^'Old  Manse."  Hawthorne  could  see  this  river  from  his 
study  window,  and  said  of  it,  — 

"  In  the  light  of  a  calm  and  golden  sunset  it  becomes 
lovely  beyond  expression ;  the  more  lovely  for  the 
quietude  that  so  well  accords  with  the  hour,  when  even 
the  wind,  after  blustering  all  day  long,  usually  hushes 
itself  to  rest." 

7.  For  four  years  Hawthorne  made  this  his  home. 
During  this  time  he  wrote  the  stories  called  ''  Mosses 
from  an  Old  Manse,"  and  it  was  here  that  his  daughter 
Una  was  born.  Two  other  children  were  born  later, 
Julian,  the  well-known  writer,  and  Rose.  These  children 
were  very  dear  to  their  father.  He  cared  for  them  lov- 
ingly, and  told  them  wonderful  stories. 

The  four  years  in  Concord  were  followed  by  four  years 
in  Salem,  where  Hawthorne  held  a  position  in  the  Custom 
House.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  place,  this  dull  old  Custom 
House,  but  he  filled  his  office  most  faithfully,  using  his 
spare  moments  for  writing.     When  he  lost  the  office,  in 


-»S  26  B«- 


1849,  he  was  discouraged,  for  he  had  no  heart  to  try  to 
sell  his  books. 

8.  Mr.  James  T.  Fields,  a  well-known  publisher  and 
friend  of  Hawthorne's,  went  tg  see  him  at  this  time,  and 
insisted  on  seeing  what  he  had  been  writing.  Hawthorne 
refused  at  first  to  show  it  to  him,  saying,  ''  Who  would 


THE   "OLD    MANSE,"    CONCORD,    MASS. 

risk  publishing  a  book  for  me,  the  most  unpopular  writer 
in  America V  "I  would,"  said  Mr.  Fields,  and  Haw- 
thorne let  him  take  the  plan  of  the  story  called  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter." 

Mr.  Fields  read  it  on  his  way  to  Boston,  wrote  him  a 
note  all  aglow  with  admiration,  and  returned  to  Salem 
the  next  day  to  arrange  for  its  publication.    "  The  Scarlet 


Letter  "  proved  to  be  a  book  so  full  of  power,  feeling, 
and  poetic  spirit  that  it  made  the  writer  famous,  and  his 
fame  increased  steadily.  His  people  are  lifelike  ;  but  an 
air  of  mystery  broods  over  them  and  holds  the  reader 
spellbound. 

9.  Hawthorne  removed  during  this  year  to  Lenox,  and 
lived  in  a  little  red  cottage  among  the  Berkshire  Hills. 
There  he  and  his  family  had  a  delightful  home,  enjoying 
the  constant  change  on  the  lake  and  mountains,  which 
could  be  seen  from  their  windows.  Here  it  was  that  he 
wrote  "  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables."  This  story  is 
full  of  grace  and  beauty,  and  there  is  a  charm  about  its 
quaint  characters. 

In  1853,  President  Pierce,  Hawthorne's  old  college 
friend,  sent  him  to  Liverpool,  as  American  Consul.  Dur- 
ing his  stay  there,  he  received  honor  and  attention  from 
the  best  families  in  England.  ''  Our  Old  Home  "  was 
written  at  this  time. 

10.  In  1857,  after  his  term  of  office  as  Consul  was  over, 
he  went  to  Italy.  He  was  charmed  with  the  Hfe  there, 
and  said  he  should  carry  the  old  villa  with  its  moss-grown 
tower  and  "  clap  it  into  a  romance" ;  and  it  was  there  that 
he  began  '^  The  Marble  Faun,"  which  was  published  both 
in  England  and  in  America. 

Before  going  to  England,  Hawthorne  had  bought  a 
house  in  Concord,  which  he  called  "  The  Wayside."     He 


and  his  family  returned  there  in  1860.  In  this  quiet  spot 
Hawthorne  spent  the  last  four  years  of  his  life  writing  in 
the  little  tower  room  he  had  added  to  his  house,  that  he 
might  be  by  himself,  and  muse  and  think.  At  one  side 
of  his  house  lay  a  little  hillside  where  he  might  walk, 
and  in  pleasant  weather  he  could  be  found  there. 

Among  his  writings  are  a  number  of  stories  for  chil- 
dren :  "  The  Tanglewood  Tales,"  "  The  Snow-Image,"  "  The 
Wonder  Book,"  and  some  stories  of  American  history. 

11.  During  the  last  years,  Hawthorne's  health  began 
to  fail,  and  he  was  unable  to  apply  himself  to  his  writing. 
In  the  month  of  May,  1864,  he  went  away  for  a  trip  with 
his  old  friend  President  Pierce,  and  while  at  Plymouth, 
N.  H.,  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  never  to  waken.  He  was 
carried  to  Concord,  and  is  buried  under  a  group  of  pines 
in  Sleepy  Hollow  Cemetery. 


^29  8f*^ 


APRIL. 


By  HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON. 

Mrs.  Jackson,  whose  writings  under  the  pseudonym  of  '<  H.  H." 
are  favorably  known,  was  the  daughter  of  Professor  Fiske  of  Am- 
herst College.  She  was  born  at 
Amherst,  Mass.,  in  1831.  At  an 
early  age  she  married  an  army 
officer  who  met  with  an  accidental 
death  during  the  war.  Five  years 
afterward  she  married  Mr.  Jack- 
son and  made  her  home  in  Colo- 
rado. 

Mrs.  Jackson  wrote  many  vol- 
umes of  both  prose  and  verse, 
and  several  stories  for  children. 
She  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
Indians,  and  in  1884  published  a 

powerful  novel  in  their  behalf  called  "  Ramona."  Her  poems  are 
marked  by  spiritual  truth  and  glow  with  the  highest  beauty.  Mrs. 
Jackson  died  in  California  in  1885. 

Robins  call  robins  in  tops  of  trees  ; 

Doves  follow  doves  with  scarlet  feet ; 
Frolicking  babies,  sweeter  than  these, 

Crowd  green  corners  where  highways  meet. 

Violets  stir  and  arbutus  wakes, 

Claytonia's  rosy  bells  unfold; 
Dandelion  through  the  meadow  makes 

A  royal  road,  with  seals  of  gold. 


-»6  30  9k 

Golden  and  snowy  and  red  the  flowers, 
Golden  and  snowy  and  red  in  vain; 

Robins  call  robins  through  sad  showers  ; 
The  white  dove's  feet  are  wet  with  rain. 

For  April  sobs  while  these  are  so  glad, 
April  weeps  while  these  are  so  gay, — 

Weeps  like  a  tired  child  who  had. 
Playing  with  flowers,  lost  its  way. 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE: 

A   CHILDISH    MIRACLE. 

(Abridged.) 

By  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

Part  I. 

^  merged'  m  dis  tinct'  ac  cSrd'mg  ly 

dif'fi  ciil  ty  pil'grim  age  at'mos  phere 

1.  One  afternoon  of  a  cold  winter's  day,  when  the  sun 
shone  forth  with  chilly  brightness  after  a  long  storm, 
two  children  asked  leave  of  their  mother  to  run.  out  and 
play  in  the  new-fallen  snow.  The  elder  child  was  a  little 
girl,  whom,  because  she  was  of  a  tender  and  modest  dis- 
position,  and   was    thought   to   be   very   beautiful,   her 


-*8  31  B«- 

parents,  and  other  people  who  were  familiar  with  her, 
used  to  call  Violet.  But  her  brother  was  known  by  the 
style  and  title  of  Peony,  on  account  of  the  ruddiness  of 
his  broad  and  round  little  phiz,  which  made  everybody 
think  of  sunshine  and  great  scarlet  flowers.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  Violet,  —  yes,  my  little  Peony,"  said  their  kind 
mother ;  "  you  may  go  out  and  play  in  the  new  snow/* 

2.  Forth  sallied  the  two  children,  with  a  hop-skip-and- 
jump  that  carried  them  at  once  into  the  very  heart  of  a 
huge  snowdrift,  whence  Violet  emerged  like  a  snow 
bunting,  while  little  Peony  floundered  out  with  his  round 
face  in  full  bloom.     Then  what  a  merry  time  had  they ! 

To  look  at  them,  frolicking  in  the  wintry  garden,  you 
would  have  thought  that  the  dark  and  pitiless  storm  had 
been  sent  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  provide  a  new  play- 
thing for  Violet  and  Peony;  and  that  they  themselves 
had  been  created,  as  the  snowbirds  were,  to  take  delight 
only  in  the  tempest,  and  in  the  white  mantle  which  it 
spread  over  the  earth. 

3.  At  last,  when  they  had  frosted  one  another  all  over 
with  handfuls  of  snow,  Violet,  after  laughing  heartily  at 
little  Peony's  figure,  was  struck  with  a  new  idea. 

''  You  look  exactly  like  a  snow-image,  Peony,"  said 
she,  "  if  your  cheeks  were  not  so  red.  And  that  puts  me 
in  mind!  Let  us  make  an  image  out  of  snow,  —  an 
image  of  a  little  girl,  —  and  it  shall  be  our  sister,  and 


"**Q  oa  y*^ 

shall  run  about  and  play  with  us  all  winter  long.  Won't 
it  be  nice?" 

"Oh,  yes! "  cried  Peony,  as  plainly  as  he  could  speak, 
for  he  was  but  a  little  boy.  "  That  will  be  nice !  And 
mamma  shall  see  it !  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Yiolet;  "mamma  shall  see  the  new 
little  girl.  But  she  must  not  make  her  come  into  the 
warm  parlor ;  for,  you  know,  our  little  snow  sister  will 
not  love  the  warmth." 

4.  And  forthwith  the  children  began  this  great  busi- 
ness of  making  a  snow-image  that  should  run  about ;  while 
their  mother,  who  was  sitting  at  the  window  and  over- 
heard some  of  their  talk,  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
gravity  with  which  they  set  about  it.  They  really 
seemed  to  imagine  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty  what- 
ever in  creating  a  live  little  girl  out  of  the  snow.  .  .  . 

Now,  for  a  few  moments,  there  was  a  busy  and  ear- 
nest but  indistinct  hum  of  the  two  children's  voices,  as 
Violet  and  Peony  wrought  together  with  one  happy  con- 
sent. Yiolet  still  seemed  to  be  the  guiding  spirit,  while 
Peony  acted  rather  as  a  laborer,  and  brought  her  the 
snow  from  far  and  near. 

5.  "  Peony,  Peony  !  "  cried  Yiolet ;  for  her  brother  was 
at  the  other  side  of  the  garden.  "  Bring  me  those  light 
wreaths  of  snow  that  have  rested  on  the  lower  branches 
of    the    pear-tree.     You  can  clamber  on   the  snowdrift, 


Peony,  and  reach  them  easily.  I  must  have  them  to 
make  some  rmglets  for  our  snow  sister's  head ! " 

"  Here  they  are,  Violet ! "  answered  the  little  boy. 
"  Take  care  you  do  not  break  them.  Well  done  !  Well 
done  !     How  pretty  ! " 

"  Does  she  not  look  sweetly  ?  "  said  Violet,  with  a  very 
satisfied  tone ;  "  and  now  we  must  have  some  little  shin- 
ing bits  of  ice  to  make  the  brightness  of  her  eyes.  She 
is  not  finished  yet.  Mamma  will  see  how  very  beautiful 
she  is  ;  but  papa  will  say,  '  Tush !  nonsense !  —  come  in 
out  of  the  cold!'" 

6.  There  was  a  minute  or  two  of  silence  ;  for  Peony, 
whose  short  legs  were  never  weary,  had  gone  on  a  pil- 
grimage again  to  the  other  side  of  the  garden.  All  of  a 
sudden  Violet  cried  out,  loudly  and  joyfully,  — 

"  Look  here.  Peony  !  Come  quickly !  A  light  has  been 
shining  on  her  cheek  out  of  that  rose-colored  cloud,  and 
the  color  does  not  go  away  !     Is  not  that  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  beau-ti-ful,"  answered  Peony.  "  0  Violet, 
only  look  at  her  hair !     It  is  all  like  gold  !  " 

''  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Violet,  as  if  it  were  very  much  a 
matter  of  course.  "  That  color,  you  know,  comes  from 
the  golden  clouds  that  we  see  up  there  in  the  sky.  She 
is  almost  finished  now.  But  her  lips  must  be  made  very 
red,  —  redder  than  her  cheeks.  Perhaps,  Peony,  it  will 
make  them  red  if  we  both  kiss  them ! " 


-»6  34  9«- 

7.  Accordingly,  the  mother  heard  two  smart  little 
smacks,  as  if  both  her  children  were  kissing  the  snow- 
image  on  its  frozen  mouth.  But,  as  this  did  not  seem  to 
make  the  lips  quite  red  enough,  Violet  next  proposed  that 
the  snow-child  should  be  invited  to  kiss  Peony's  scarlet 
cheek. 

"  Oh,  what  a'  cold  kiss !  "  cried  Peony. 

8.  Just  then  there  came  a  breeze  of  the  pure  west  wind, 
sweeping  through  the  garden  and  rattling  the  parlor 
windows.  It  sounded  so  wintry  cold  that  the  mother 
was  about  to  tap  on  the  window  pane  with  her  thimbled 
finger,  to  summon  the  two  childr-en  in,  when  they  both 
cried  out  to  her  with  one  voice,  — 

"  Mamma  !  mamma !  We  have  finished  our  little  snow 
sister,  and  she  is  running  about  the  garden  with  us ! " 

"Dear mamma!  "  cried  Violet,  "pray  look  out  and  see 
what  a  sweet  playmate  we  have !  " 

9.  The  mother,  being  thus  entreated,  could  no  longer 
delay  to  look  forth  from  the  window.  And  what  do  you 
think  she  saw  there  ?  Violet  and  Peony,  of  course,  her 
own  two  darling  children.  Ah,  but  whom  or  what  did 
she  see  besides  ?  Why,  if  you  will  believe  me,  there  was 
a  small  figure  of  a  girl,  dressed  all  in  white,  with  rose- 
tinged  cheeks  and  ringlets  of  golden  hue,  playing  about 
the  garden  with  the  two  children ! 

The  child  seemed  to  be  on  as  familiar  terms  with  Violet 


-^  35  S«^ 

and  Peony,  and  they  with  her,  as  if  all  the  three  had  been 
playmates  during  the  whole  of  their  little  lives.  The 
mother  thought  to  herself  that  it  must  certainly  be  the 
daughter  of  one  of  the  neighbors,  and  that,  seeing  Yiolet 
and  Peony  in  the  garden,  the  child  had  run  across  the 
street  to  play  with  them.  So  this  kind  lady  went  to  the 
door,  intending  to  invite  the  little  runaway  into  her  com- 
fortable parlor  ;  for,  now  that  the  sunshine  was  with- 
drawn, the  atmosphere  out  of  doors  was  already  growing 
very  cold. 

10.  But,  after  opening  the  house  door,  she  stood  an 
instant  on  the  threshold,  wondering  how  a  little  girl 
could  look  so  much  like  a  flying  snowdrift,  or  how  a 
snowdrift  could  look  so  very  like  a  little  girl. 

She  called  Yiolet,  and  whispered  to  her. 

"  Violet,  my  darling,  what  is  this  child's  name  ?  "  asked 
she.     "  Does  she  live  near  us  ?  " 

"  Why,  dearest  mamma,"  answered  Violet,  "  this  is  our 
little  snow  sister,  whom  we  have  just  been  making !  " 

"  Yes,  dear  mamma,"  cried  Peony,  running  to  his 
mother,  and  looking  up  simply  into  her  face.  "  This  is 
our  snow -image !     Is  it  not  a  nice  little  child  ?  " 


-»9  36  8«- 


i  THE' SHOWim^l^^,    m 


-»6  37  8«- 

THE  SNOW-IMAGE. 
Part  II. 

as  sev'er  at  ed  oc  ca'sion  al  ly 

(zh)         -       '' 

rogw'ish  ly  per  plex^i  ty 

be  nev'6  lent  tri'umph  mg 

1.  At  this  instant  a  flock  of  snowbirds  came  flitting 
through  the  air.  As  was  very  natural,  they  avoided 
Violet  and  Peony.  But,  —  and  this  looked  strange, — 
they  flew  at  once  to  the  white-robed  child,  fluttered 
eagerly  about  her  head,  alighted  on  her  shoulders,  and 
seemed  to  claim  her  as  an  old  acquaintance. 

She,  on  her  part,  was  evidently  as  glad  to  see  these 
little  birds,  old  Winter's  grandchildren,  as  they  were  to 
see  her,  and  welcomed  them  by  holding  out  both  her 
hands.  Hereupon  they  each  and  all  tried  to  alight  on 
her  two  palms  and  ten  small  fingers  and  thumbs,  crowd- 
ing one  another  off,  with  an  immense  fluttering  of  their 
tiny  wings.  One  dear  little  bird  nestled  tenderly  in  her 
bosom ;  another  put  its  bill  to  her  lips.  They  were  as 
joyous,  all  the  while,  and  seemed  as  much  in  their  element 
as  you  may  have  seen  them  when  sporting  with  a  snow- 
storm. 

2.  ^'  Violet,"  said  her  mother,  greatly  perplexed,  "  tell 
me  the  truth,  without  any  jest.     Who  is  this  little  girl  ?  " 


-«  38  8«- 

"  My  darling  mamma,"  answered  Violet,  looking  seri- 
ously into  her  mother's  face,  and  apparently  surprised 
that  she  should  need  any  further  explanation,  ^'1  have 
told  you  truly  who  she  is.  It  is  our  little  snow-image, 
which  Peony  and  I  have  been  making.  Peony  will  tell 
you  so,  as  well  as  I." 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  asseverated  Peony,  with  much  gravity 
in  his  crimson  little  phiz  ;  "  this  is  little  snow-child.  Is 
not  she  a  nice  one  ?  But,  mamma,  her  hand  is,  oh,  so 
very  cold !  " 

3.  While  mamma  still  hesitated  what  to  think  and 
what  to  do,  the  street  gate  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
father  of  Violet  and  Peony  appeared,  wrapped  in  a  pilot- 
cloth  sack,  with  a  fur  cap  drawn  down  over  his  ears  and 
the  thickest  of  gloves  upon  his  hands.  He  soon  perceived 
the  little  white  stranger,  sporting  to  and  fro  in  the  gar- 
den, like  a  dancing  snow-wreath,  and  the  flock  of  snow- 
birds fluttering  about  her  head. 

"Pray,  what  little  girl  may  that  be?"  inquired  this 
very  sensible  man.  "  Surely  her  mother  must  be  crazy  to 
let  her  go  out  in  such  bitter  weather  as  it  has  been  to-day, 
with  only  that  flimsy  white  gown  and  those  thin  slippers  ! " 

"  Dear  father,"  cried  Violet,  putting  herself  before 
him.  "  This  is  our  little  snow  girl,  and  she  cannot  live  any 
longer  than  while  she  breathes  the  cold  west  wind.  Do 
not  make  her  come  into  the  hot  room  1 " 


-»8  S9  8«- 

4.  But  now  kind  Mr.  Lindsey  had  entered  the  garden, 
breaking  away  from  his  two  children,  who  still  sent  their 
shrill  voices  after  him,  beseeching  him  to  let  the  snow- 
child  stay  and  enjoy  herself  in  the  cold  west  wind.  As 
he  approached,  the  snowbirds  took  to  flight.  The  little 
white  damsel  also  fled  backward,  shaking  her  head,  as  if 
to  say,  "  Pray,  do  not  touch  me ! "  and  roguishly  as  it 
appeared,  leading  him  through  the  deepest  of  the  snow. 
Once  the  good  man  stumbled  and  floundered  down  upon 
his  face,  so  that,  gathering  himself  up  again,  with  the 
snow  sticking  to  his  rough  pilot-cloth  sack,  he  looked  as 
white  and  wintry  as  a  snow-image  of  the  largest  size. 

5.  At  length,  after  a  vast  deal  of  trouble,  he  chased 
the  little  stranger  into  a  corner,  where  she  could  not  pos- 
sibly escape  him.  His  wife  had  been  looking  on,  and,  it 
being  nearly  twilight,  was  wonder-struck  to  observe  how 
the  snow -child  gleamed  and  sparkled,  and  how  she  seemed 
to  shed  a  glow  all  round  about  her ;  and  when  driven  into 
the  corner,  she  positively  glistened  like  a  star ! 

It  was  a  frosty  kind  of  brightness,  too,  like  that  of  an 
icicle  in  the  moonlight.  The  wife  thought  it  strange  that 
good  Mr.  Lindsey  should  see  nothing  remarkable  in  the 
snow-child's  appearance. 

6.  "Come,  you  odd  little  thing!"  cried  the  honest 
man,  seizing  her  by  the  hand,  "  I  have  caught  you  at  last, 
and  will  make  you  comfortable  in  spite  of  yourself.     We 


will  put  a  nice  warm  pair  of  worsted  stockings  on  your 
frozen  little  feet,  and  you  shall  have  a  good  thick  shawl 
to  wrap  yourself  in.  Your  poor  white  nose,  I  am  afraid, 
is  actually  frost-bitten.  But  we  will  make  it  all  right. 
Come  along  in." 

7.  And  so,  with  a  most  benevolent  smile,  this  very 
well-meaning  gentleman  took  the  snow-child  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  towards  the  house.  She  followed  him,  droop- 
ingly  and  reluctant,  for  all  the  glow  and  sparkle  was 
gone  out  of  her  figure ;  and  whereas  just  before  she  had 
resembled  a  bright,  frosty,  star-gemmed  evening,  with  a 
crimson  gleam  on  the  cold  horizon,  she  now  looked  as 
dull  and  languid  as  a  thaw.  As  kind  Mr.  Lindsey  led 
her  up  the  steps  to  the  door,  Violet  and  Peony  looked 
into  his  face,  their  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  again  entreated 
him  not  to  bring  their  snow-image  into  the  house. 

8.  "  Not  bring  her  in !  "  exclaimed  the  kind-hearted 
man.  "Why,  you  are  crazy,  my  little  Violet! — quite 
crazy,  my  small  Peony  !  She  is  so  cold  already  that  her 
hand  has  almost  frozen  mine,  in  spite  of  my  thick  gloves. 
Would  you  have  her  freeze  to  death  ?" 

His  wife,  as  he  came  up  the  steps,  had  been  taking 
another  long,  earnest  gaze  at  the  little  white  stranger. 
She  hardly  knew  whether  it  was  a  dream  or  no  ;  but  she 
could  not  help  fancying  that  she  saw  the  delicate  print  of 
Violet's  fingers  on  the  child's  neck.     It  looked  just  as  if, 


-^  41  8«- 

while  Yiolet  was  shaping  out  the  image,  she  had  given  it 
a  gentle  pat  with  her  hand,  and  had  neglected  to  smooth 
the  impression  quite  away. 

"After  all,  husband,"  said  the  mother,  —  "after  all, 
she  does  look  strangely  like  a  snow-image !  I  do  believe 
she  is  made  of  snow !  " 

9.  A  puff  of  the  west  wind  blew  against  the  snow-child, 
and  again  she  sparkled  like  a  star. 

"  Snow  1  "  repeated  good  Mr.  Lindsey,  drawing  the 
reluctant  guest  over  his  hospitable  threshold.  "  No  won- 
der she  looks  like  snow.  She  is  half  frozen,  poor  little 
thing !     But  a  good  fire  will  put  everything  to  rights." 

The  common-sensible  man  placed  the  snow-child  on 
the  hearth  rug,  right  in  front  of  the  hissing  and  fuming 
stove. 

"  Now  she  will  be  comfortable !  "  cried  Mr.  Lindsey, 
rubbing  his  hands  and  looking  about  him,  with  the  pleas- 
antest  smile  you  ever  saw.  "  Make  yourself  at  home,  my 
child." 

10.  Sad,  sad,  and  drooping  looked  the  little  white 
maiden,  as  she  stood  on  the  hearth  rug,  with  the  hot  blast 
of  the  stove  striking  through  her.  Once  she  threw  a 
glance  wistfully  toward  the  windows,  and  caught  a 
glimpse,  through  its  red  curtains,  of  the  snow-covered 
roofs  and  the  stars  glimmering  frostily,  and  all  the  deli- 
cious intensity  of  the  cold  night.     The  bleak  wind  rattled 


-^  4-2  9*^ 

the  window  panes,  as  if  it  were  summoning  her  to  come 
forth.  But  there  stood  the  snow-child,  drooping,  before 
the  hot  stove ! 

But  the  common-sensible  man  saw  nothing  amiss. 

11.  "Come,  wife,"  said  he,  "let  her  have  a  pair  of 
thick  stockings  and  a  woollen  shawl  or  blanket  directly ; 
and  tell  Dora  to  give  her  some  warm  supper  as  soon  as 
the  milk  boils.  You,  Violet  and  Peony,  amuse  your  little 
friend.  She  is  out  of  spirits,  you  see,  at  finding  herself 
in  a  strange  place.  For  my  part,  I  will  go  around  among 
the  neighbors  and  find  out  where  she  belongs." 

"  Husband !  husband  1  "  cried  his  wife,  showing  her 
horror-stricken  face  through  the  window  panes.  "  There 
is  no  need  of  going  for  the  child's  parents  !  " 

"  We  told  you  so,  father !  "  screamed  Violet  and  Peony, 
as  he  re-entered  the  parlor.  "  You  would  bring  her  in ; 
and  now  our  poor — dear  —  beau-ti-ful  little  snow  sister  is 
thawed ! " 

12.  And  their  own  sweet  little  faces  were  already  dis- 
solved in  tears  ;  so  that  their  father,  seeing  what  strange 
things  occasionally  happen  in  this  everyday  world,  felt 
not  a  little  anxious  lest  his  children  might  be  going  to 
thaw  too!  In  the  utmost  perplexity,  he  demanded  an 
explanation  of  his  wife. 

She  could  only  reply  that,  being  summoned  to  the  parlor 
by  the  cries  of  Violet  and  Peony,  she  found  no  trace  of 


-*i6  43  9i^ 

the  little  white  maiden,  unless  it  were  the  remains  of  a 
heap  of  snow,  which,  while  she  was  gazing  at  it,  melted 
quite  away  upon  the  hearth  rug. 

13.  "And  there  you  see  all  that  is  left  of  it!''  added 
she,  pointing  to  a  pool  of  water  in  front  of  the  stove. 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Violet,  looking  reproachfully  at 
him,  through  her  tears,  "  there  is  all  that  is  left  of  our 
dear  little  snow  sister !  " 

And  the  Heidenberg  stove,  through  the  isinglass  of  its 
door,  seemed  to  glare  at  good  Mr.  Lindsey,  like  a  red-' 
eyed  demon,  triumphing  in  the  mischief  which  it  had 
done ! 


A  BRAVE   BOY. 

By  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE.    ' 
From  "  Two  Little  Confederates."     Copyright,  1888,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

Thomas  Nelson  Page,  a  descendant  of  General  Nelson,  one  of 
the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  was  born  at  Oak- 
land, Va.,  in  1853.  The  land  on  which  the  home  of  his  boyhood 
stood  had  been  granted  to  General  Kelson  by  King  George  of 
England.  The  house  was  situated  at  the  meeting  of  two  roads  that 
lead  to  Richmond.  During  the  war  these  roads  were  the  highways 
of  two  armies. 

The  boy  was  taught  at  home  by  his  aunt  and  father.  He  had  a 
remarkable  memory  and  was  very  quick  at  figures. 

He  and  his  brothers  played  about  his  father's  plantation.  They 
liked  to  spend  their  evenings  in  the  log  cabins,  listening  to  the 


-»8  44  8«- 

weird  tales  told  by  the  colored  people,  while  the  burning  pine  knot 
made  strange  shadows  on  the  cabin  walls. 

When  the  war  broke  out,  the  army  of  North  Virginia  camped 
for  two  winters  near  the  plantation.  The 
boys  saw  a  great  deal  of  camp  life,  and 
listened  to  war  stories  without  end. 

In  1868  the  future  author  went  to 
Washington  College,  and  while  there 
wrote  for  the  college  paper.  He  after- 
wards taught  school,  and  then  studied 
law  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  where 
he  was  graduated  with  honor  at  the  end 
of  one  year. 

The  many  tales  heard  in  his  boyhood 
and  the  pictures  of  plantation  life  began 
to  weave  themselves  into  stories.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  was  able  to  find  a  publisher  ;  but  his 
talent  was  finally  recognized,  and  now  his  tales  of  the  South  are 
very  popular.  Whether  drawn  from  the  mansion  house  or  the 
cabin,  they  are  filled  with  humor,  pathos,  and  feeling. 


Mr.  Page's  "  Two  Little  Confederates,"  from  which  the  follow- 
ing selection  has  been  taken,  is  a  story  of  the  war,  full  of  stirring 
incidents.  Frank  and  Willie  were  the  "  Two  Little  Confederates.'^ 
They  had  an  older  brother  in  the  Confederate  Army,  and  he  and 
his  General  were  hiding  in  a  cave  while  the  Union  soldiers  were 
hunting  for  them.  The  two  boys  had  been  to  carry  some  food 
to  them. 

de  scend'ant  chev^ron 

(8) 

m  de  pend'enQe  mus  tache' 

a  pSr.o  gj  c6r'p6  ral 

par' a  lyzed  re  ap  peared' 


-«  45  8<- 

1.  After  crossing  the  gully  and  walking  on  through 
the  woods  for  what  they  thought  a  safe  distance,  they 
turned  into  the  path.  They  were  talking  very  merrily 
about  the  General  and  Hugh  and  their  friend  Mills,  and 
were  discussing  some  romantic  plan  for  the  recapture  of 
their  horses  from  the  enemy,  when  they  came  out  of  the 
path  into  a  road,  and  found  themselves  within  twenty 
yards  of  a  group  of  Federal  soldiers,  quietly  sitting  on 
their  horses,  evidently  guarding  the  road. 

2.  The  sight  of  the  blue  coats  made-  the  boys  jump. 
They  would  have  crept  back,  but  it  was  too  late  — 
they  caught  the  eye  of  the  man  nearest  them.  They 
ceased  talking  as  suddenly  as  birds  in  the  tree  stop  chirp- 
ing when  the  hawk  sails  over;  and  when  one  Yankee 
called  to  them,  in  a  stern  tone,  "Halt  there!"  and 
started  to  come  toward  them,  their  hearts  were  in  their 
mouths. 

"  Where  are  you  boys  going  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  came  up 
to  them. 

"  Going  home." 

"  Where  do  you  belong  ?  " 

"  Over  there  —  at  Oakland,"  pointing  in  the  direction 
of  their  home,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  have  moved  a 
thousand  miles  away. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? "  The  other  soldiers  had 
come  up  now. 


-^  46  8«- 

^^  Been  down  this  way."  The  boys'  voices  were  never 
so  meek  before.     Each  reply  was  like  an  apology. 

3.  "Been  to  see  your  brother?"  asked  one  who  had 
not  spoken  before  —  a  pleasant-looking  fellow.  The  boys 
looked  at  him.  They  were  paralyzed  by  dread  of  the 
approaching  question. 

"  Now,  boys,  we  know  where  you  have  been,"  said  a 
small  fellow,  who  wore  a  yellow  chevron  on  his  arm.  He 
had  a  thin  mustache  and  a  sharp  nose,  and  rode  a  wiry, 
dull,  sorrel  horse;  "  You  may  just  as  well  tell  us  all  about 
it.  We  know  you  Ve  been  to  see  'em,  and  we  are  going 
to  make  you  carry  us  where  they  are." 

"  No,  we  ain't,"  said  Frank,  doggedly. 

Willy  expressed  his  determination  also. 

4.  "  If  you  don't,  it 's  going  to  be  pretty  bad  for  you," 
said  the  little  corporal.  He  gave  an  order  to  two  of  the 
men,  who  sprang  from  their  horses,  and,  catching  Frank, 
swung  him  up  behind  another  cavalryman.  The  boy's 
face  was  very  pale,  but  he  bit  his  lip. 

"Go  ahead,"  continued  the  corporal  to  a  number  of 
his  men,  who  started  down  the  path.  "  You  four  men 
remain  here  till  we  come  back,"  he  said  to  the  men  on  the 
ground,  and  to  two  others  on  horseback.  "Keep  him 
here,"  jerking  his  thumb  towards  Willy,  whose  face  was 
already  burning  with  emotion. 

5.  "  I  'm  going  with  Frank,"  said  Willy.  "  Let  me  go." 


•^  47  8*^ 

This  to  the  man  who  had  hold  of  him  by  the  arm. 
"  Frank,  make  him  let  me  go,"  he  shouted,  bursting  into 
tears,  and  turning  on  his  captor  with  all  his  little  might. 

"  Willy,  he  's  not  goin'  to  hurt  you,  —  don't  you  tell !  " 
called  Frank,  squirming  until  he  dug  his  heels  so  into  the 
horse's  flank  that  the  horse  began  to  kick  up. 

"  Keep  quiet,  Johnny ;  he  's  not  goin'  to  hurt  him," 
said  one  of  the  men,  kindly.  He  had  a  brown  beard  and 
shining  white  teeth. 

6.  They  rode  slowly  down  the  narrow  path,  the 
dragoon  holding  Frank  by  the  leg.  Deep  down  in  the 
woods,  beyond  a  small  branch,  the  path  forked. 

"Which  way?"  asked  the  corporal,  stopping,  and 
addressing  Frank. 

Frank  set  his  mouth  tight  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes. 

"  Which  is  it  ?  "  the  corporal  repeated. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  tell,"  said  he,  firmly. 

"  Look  here,  Johnny ;  we  Ve  got  you,  and  we  are  going 
to  make  you  tell  us ;  so  you  might  just  as  well  do  it  easy. 
If  you  don't,  we  're  goin'  to  make  you." 

The  boy  said  nothing. 

7.  "  You  men  dismount.  Stubbs,  hold  the  horses."  He 
himself  dismounted,  and  three  others  did  the  same,  giving 
their  horses  to  a  fourth. 

"Get  down!" — this  to  Frank  and  the  soldier  behind 
whom  he  was  riding.     The  soldier  dismounted,  and  the 


boy  slipped  off  after  him  and  faced  his  captor,  who  held 
a  strap  in  one  hand. 

"  Are  you  goin'  to  tell  us  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No." 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  "  He  came  a  step  nearer  and  held 
the  strap  forward.     There  was  a  long  silence.     The  boy's 


FRANK    FACES    HIS    CAPTOR 


face  paled,  but  took  on  a  look  as  if  the  proceedings  were 
indifferent  to  him. 

8.  "If  you  say  you  don't  know — "  said  the  man,  hesi- 
tating in  face  of  the  boy's  resolution.  "  Don't  you  know 
where  they  are  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  tell  you,"  said 
Frank,  bursting  into  tears. 


H»6  49  8<- 

''  The  little  Johnny 's  game,"  said  the  soldier  who  had 
told  him  the  others  were  not  going  to  hurt  Willy.  The 
corporal  said  something  to  this  man  in  an  undertone,  to 
which  he  replied  : 

"  You  can  try,  but  it  is  n't  going  to  do  any  good.  I 
don't  half  like  it,  anyway." 

Frank  had  stopped  crying  after  his  first  outburst. 

"  If  you  don't  tell,  we  are  going  to  shoot  you,"  said  the 
little  soldier,  drawing  his  pistol. 

9.  The  boy  shut  his  mouth  close  and  looked  straight 
at  the  corporal.  The  man  laid  down  his  pistol,  and, 
seizing  Frank,  drew  his  hands  behind  him  and  tied 
them. 

"  Get  ready,  men,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  the  boy  aside  to 
a  small  tree,  putting  him  with  his  back  to  it. 

Frank  thought  his  hour  had  come.  He  thought  of  his 
mother  and  Willy,  and  wondered  if  the  soldiers  would 
shoot  Willy,  too.  His  face  twitched  and  grew  ghastly 
white.  Then  he  thought  of  his  father,  and  of  how  proud 
he  would  be  of  his  son's  bravery  when  he  should  hear  of 
it.     This  gave  him  strength. 

''  The  knot  —  hurts  my  hands,"  he  said. 

The  man  leaned  over  and  eased  it  a  little. 

"  I  was  n't  crying  because  I'was  scared,"  said  Frank. 

^^Now,  boys,  get  ready,"  said  the  corporal,  taking  up 
his  pistol. 


-^  50  8^ 

10.  How  large  it  looked  to  Frank.  He  wondered 
where  the  bullets  would  hit  him,  and  if  the  wounds 
would  bleed,  and  whether  he  would  be  left  alone  all  night 
out  there  in  the  woods. 

"  I  want  to  say  my  prayers/'  he  said,  faintly. 

The  soldier  made  some  reply  which  he  could  not  hear, 
and  the  man  with  the  beard  started  forward ;  but  just 
then  all  grew  dark  before  his  eyes. 

Next,  he  thought  he  must  have  been  shot,  for  he  felt  wet 
about  his  face,  and  was  lying  down.  He  heard  some  one 
say,  "He 's  coming  to  ";  and  another  replied,  "Thank  God! " 

11.  He  opened  his  eyes.  He  was  lying  beside  the  little 
branch  with  his  head  in  the  lap  of  the  big  soldier  with 
the  beard,  and  the  little  corporal  was  leaning  over  him 
throwing  water  in  his  face  from  a  cap.  The  others  were 
standing  around. 

"What  's  the  matter?"  asked  Frank. 

"  That 's  all  right,"  said  the  little  corporal,  kindly. 
"  We  were  just  a-f oolin'  a  bit  with  you,  Johnny." 

"  We  never  meant  to  hurt  you,"  said  the  other.  "  You 
feel  better  now  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  where  's  Willy  ?  "     He  was  too  tired  to  move. 

"  He  's  all  right.     We  '11  take  you  to  him." 

"  Am  I  shot  ?  "  asked  Frank. 

"  No  !  Do  you  think  we  'd  have  touched  a  hair  of  your 
head — and  you  such  a  brave  little  fellow?     We  were 


-^  51  8<- 

just  trying  to  scare  you  a  bit  and  carried  it  too  far,  and 
you  got  a  little  faint,  —  that 's  all." 

12.  The  voice  was  so  kind  that  Frank  was  encouraged 
to  sit  up. 

"  Can  you  walk  now  ?  "  asked  the  corporal,  helping  him 
and  steadying  him  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

''  I  '11  take  him,"  said  the  big  fellow,  and  before  the  boy 
could  move,  he  had  stooped,  taken  Frank  in  his  arms,  and 
was  carrying  him  back  toward  the  place  where  they  had 
left  Willy,  while  the  others  followed  after  with  the  horses. 

"  I  can  walk,"  said  Frank. 

"  No,  I  '11  carry  you." 

13.  The  boy  did  not  know  that  the  big  dragoon  was 
looking  down  at  the  light  hair  resting  on  his  arm,  and 
that  while  he  trod  the  Virginia  wood-path,  in  fancy  he 
was  home  in  Delaware ;  or  that  the  pressure  the  boy  felt 
from  his  strong  arms  was  a  caress  given  for  the  sake  of 
another  boy  far  away  on  the  Brandywine.  A  little  while 
before  they  came  in  sight,  Frank  asked  to  be  put  down. 

The  soldier  gently  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  before  he 
let  him  go,  kissed  him. 

"  I  've  got  a  curly-headed  fellow  at  home,  just  the  size 
of  you,"  he  said  softly. 

Frank  saw  that  his  eyes  were  moist.  "  I  hope  you  '11 
get  safe  back  to  him,"  he  said. 

"  God  grant  it !  "  said  the  soldier. 


-j8  52  8«- 

14.  When  they  reached  the  squad  at  the  gate,  they 
found  Willy  still  in  much  distress  on  Frank's  account ; 
but  he  wiped  his  eyes  when  his  brother  reappeared,  and 
listened  with  pride  to  the  soldiers'  praise  of  Frank's 
'•grit,"  as  they  called  it.  When  they  let  the  boys  go,  the 
little  corporal  wished  Frank  to  accept  a  five-dollar  gold 
piece ;  but  he  politely  declined  it. 


THE   LITTLE    POST-BOY. 

(Abridged.) 
By  BAYAKD  TAYLOR. 

Bayard  Taylor,  who  wrote  the  story  of  "  The  Little  Post-Boy," 

was  a  great  traveler  and  writer. 
He  was  born  in  1825  at  Kennett 
Square,  Penn.  His  earliest  desire 
was  to  go  forth  to  see  the  world. 
He  writes,  — 

"  In  looking  back  to  my  child- 
hood, I  can  recall  the  intensest 
desire  to  climb  upward  and  take 
in  a  far  wider  sweep  of  vision.  I 
envied  every  bird  that  sat  swing- 
ing upon  the  topmost  bough  of 
the  great  cherry  tree  ;  and  to  rise 
in  a  balloon  was  a  bliss  which  I 
would  almost  give  my  life  to  en j  oy . 
«  Looking  out  of  my  window,  on  a  bright  May  morning,  I  discov- 
ered a  row  of  slats  which  had  been  nailed  over  the  shingles,  and 


-^  53  8^^ 

had  not  been  removed.  Here  was  a  chance  to  reach  the  comb  ol 
the  steep  roof  and  take  my  first  look  abroad  into  the  world.  I 
ventured  out  and  was  soon  seated  outside  the  sharp  ridge.  Un- 
known forests,  new  fields,  and  houses  appeared  to  my  triumphant 
view.  The  prospect,  though  it  did  not  extend  more  than  four 
miles  in  any  direction,  was  boundless. 

"Away  in  the  northeast,  glimmering  through  the  trees,  was  a 
white  object,  probably  the  front  of  a  distant  barn  ;  but  I  shouted 
to  the  astonished  servant  girl,  who  had  just  discovered  me  from 
the  garden  below,  ^  I  see  the  falls  of  Niagara ! '  " 

Bayard  had  read  all  the  books  in  the  little  library  of  his  village 
before  he  was  twelve  years  old,  and  had  several  books  of  his  own, 
bought  with  money  which  he  had  earned  selling  nuts.  Books  of 
travel  and  poetry  were  his  favorites,  and  he  felt  sure  he  should 
sometime  visit  the  lands  of  which  he  read. 

He  began  writing  when  very  young,  but  did  nothing  with  his 
writings  until  he  was  about  seventeen,  when  he  went  to  assist  a 
printer,  who  published  a  village  paper.  His  work  there  left  him 
time  for  reading  and  writing  poems,  which  were  printed  in  the 
newspapers. 

His  first  book  was  a  little  volume  of  poems,  published  when  he 
was  nineteen.  Soon  after  he  went  abroad  and  spent  two  years 
traveling  about  on  foot.  On  his  return,  he  wrote  "  Views  Afoot," 
which  made  him  well  known. 

The  greater  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  traveling  and  writing. 

par  tiQ'i  pat  ed  m  Qes'sant  ly 

in  for  ma'tion  cir  cu  la'tion 

(Sh)  ^  (8h) 

ther  mom'e  ter  ex  Aai^st'ed 

J. 

Siu  ro'ra  ex'tri  cate 

1.  In  my  travels  about  the  world,  I  have  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  great  many  children,  and  I  might  tell 


-»9  54  8«*- 

you  many  things  about  their  dress,  their  speech,  and  their 
habits  of  life,  in  the  different  countries  I  have  visited.  I 
presume,  however,  that  you  would  rather  hear  me  relate 
some  of  my  adventures  in  which  children  participated,  so 
that  the  story  and  the  information  shall  be  given  together. 

This  one  shall  be  the  story  of  my  adventure  with  a 
little  post-boy,  in  the  northern  part  of  Sweden.  Very 
few  foreigners  travel  in  Sweden  in  the  winter,  on  account 
of  the  intense  cold. 

2.  I  made  my  journey  in  the  winter  because  I  was  on 
my  way  to  Lapland,  where  it  is  easier  to  travel  when  the 
swamps  and  rivers  are  frozen,  and  the  reindeer  sleds  can 
fly  along  over  the  smooth  snow.  It  was  very  cold  indeed, 
the  greater  part  of  the  time ;  the  days  were  short  and 
dark,  and  if  I  had  not  found  the  people  so  kind,  so  cheer- 
ful, and  so  honesi;,  I  should  have  felt  inclined  to  turn 
back  more  than  once. 

But  I  do  not  think  there  are  better  people  in  the  world 
than  those  who  live  in  Norrland,  which  is  a  Swedish 
province,  commencing  about  two  hundred  miles  north  of 
Stockholm. 

They  are  a  tall,  strong  race,  with  yellow  hair  and 
bright  blue  eyes,  and  the  handsomest  teeth  I  ever  saw. 
They  live  plainly,  but  very  comfortably,  in  snug  wooden 
houses,  with  double  windows  and  doors  to  keep  out  the 
cold. 


-^  55  3«- 

Here  there  are  neither  railroads  nor  stages,  but  the 
government  has  established  post-stations  at  distances 
varying  from  ten  to  twenty  miles.  At  each  station  a 
number  of  horses  are  kept,  but  generally  the  traveler 
has  his  own  sled,  and  simply  hires  the  horses  from  one 
station  to  another. 

3.  I  had  my  own  little  sled,  filled  with  hay  and 
covered  with  reindeer  skins  to  keep  me  warm.  So  long 
as  the  weather  was  not  too  cold,  it  was  very  pleasant  to 
speed  along  through  the  dark  forests,  over  the  frozen 
rivers,  or  past  farm  after  farm  in  the  sheltered  valleys, 
up  hill  and  down,  until  long  after  the  stars  came  out,  and 
then  get  a  warm  supper  in  some  dark -red  post  cottage, 
while  the  cheerful  people  sang  or  told  stories  around  the 
fire. 

At  first  the  thermometer  fell  to  zero;  then  it  went 
down  ten  degrees  below ;  then  twenty,  and  finally  thirty. 
Being  dressed  in  thick  furs  from  head  to  foot,  I  did  not 
suffer  greatly ;  but  I  was  very  glad  when  the  people  as- 
sured me  that  such  extreme  cold  never  lasted  more  than 
two  or  three  days. 

Boys  of  twelve  or  fourteen  very  often  went  with  me  to 
bring  back  their  fathers'  horses,  and  so  long  as  those 
lively,  red-cheeked  fellows  could  face  the  weather,  it 
would  not  do  for  me  to  be  afraid. 

4.  One  night  there  was  a  wonderful  aurora  in  the  sky. 


-^  56  9«^ 

The  streamers  of  red  and  blue  light  darted  hither  and 
thither,  chasing  each  other  up  to  the  zenith  and  down 
again  to  the  northern  horizon,  with  a  rapidity  and  a  bril- 
liance which  I  had  never  seen  before.  "  There  will  be  a 
storm  soon/'  said  my  post-boy;  "  one  always  comes  after 
these  lights." 

Next  morning  the  sky  was  overcast,  and  the  short  day 
was  as  dark  as  our  twilight.  But  it  was  not  quite  so  cold, 
and  I  traveled  onward  as  fast  as  possible.  There  was  a  long 
tract  of  wild  and  thinly  settled  country  before  me,  and  I 
wished  to  get  through  it  before  stopping  for  the  night. 
At  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  I  had  still  one  more  sta- 
tion of  three  Swedish  miles  before  reaching  the  village 
where  I  intended  to  spend  the  night.  Now,  a  Swedish 
mile  is  nearly  equal  to  seven  English,  so  that  this  station 
was  at  least  twenty  miles  long. 

5.  I  decided  to  take  supper  while  the  horse  was  eating 
his  feed.  They  had  not  expected  any  more  travelers  at 
the  station  and  were  not  prepared.  The  keeper  had  gone 
on  with  two  lumber  merchants ;  but  his  wife  —  a  friendly, 
rosy-faced  woman — -prepared  me  some  excellent  coffee, 
potatoes,  and  stewed  reindeer  meat,  upon  which  I  made 
an  excellent  meal. 

I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  go  forth  into  the  wintry 
storm,  but,  having  set  my  mind  on  reaching  the  village 
that  night,  I  was  loath  to  turn  back. 


-»8  57  8«- 

"It  is  a  bad  night,"  said  the  woman,  "and  my  husband 
will  certainly  stay  at  Umea  until  morning.  Lars  will 
take  you,  and  they  can  come  back  together." 

"Who  is  Lars?"  I  asked. 

"  My  son,"  said  she.  "  He  is  getting  the  horse  ready. 
There  is  nobody  else  about  the  house  to-night." 

6.  Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  in  came  Lars.  He 
was  about  twelve  years  old ;  but  his  face  was  so  rosy,  his 
eyes  so  clear  and  round  and  blue,  and  his  golden  hair  was 
blown  back  from  his  face  in  such  silky  curls,  that  he 
appeared  to  be  even  younger.  I  was  surprised  that  his 
mother  should  be  willing  to  send  him  twenty  miles 
through  the  dark  woods  on  such  a  night. 

"  Come  here,  Lars,"  I  said.  Then  I  took  him  by  the 
hand,  and  asked,  "  Are  you  not  afraid  to  go  so  far  to- 
night?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  wondering  eyes  and  smiled ;  and 
his  mother  made  haste  to  say:  "You  need  have  no  fear, 
sir.  Lars  is  young ;  but  he  '11  take  you  safe  enough.  If 
the  storm  don't  get  worse,  you  '11  be  at  Umea  by  eleven 
o'clock." 

7.  While  I  was  deliberating  with  myself  the  boy  had 
put  on  his  overcoat  of  sheepskin,  tied  the  lappets  of  his 
fur  cap  under  his  chin,  and  a  thick  woolen  scarf  around 
his  nose  and  mouth,  so  that  only  the  round  blue  eyes 
were  visible ;  and  then  his  mother  took  down  the  mittens 


-»8  58  8<- 

of  hare's  fur  from  the  stove,  where  they  had  been  hung 
to  dry.  He  put  them  on,  took  a  short  leather  whip,  and 
was  ready. 

I  wrapped  myself  in  my  furs,  and  we  went  out  together. 
The  driving  snow  cut  me  in  the  face  like  needles,  but 
Lars  did  not  mind  it  in  the  least.  He  jumped  into  the 
sled,  which  he  had  filled  with  fresh,  soft  hay,  tucked  in 
the  reindeer  skins  at  the  sides,  and  we  cuddled  together 
on  the  narrow  seat,  making  everything  close  and  warm 
before  we  set  out.     I  could  not  see  at  all. 

8.  The  night  was  dark,  the  snow  blew  incessantly,  and 
the  dark  fir-trees  roared  all  around  us.  Lars,  however, 
knew  the  way,  and  somehow  or  other  we  kept  the  beaten 
track.  He  talked  to  the  horse  so  constantly  and  so 
cheerfully  that  after  awhile  my  own  spirits  began  to 
rise,  and  the  way  seemed  neither  so  long  nor  so  disagree- 
able. 

"  Ho  there.  Axel !  "  he  would  say.  "  Keep  the  road,  — 
not  too  far  to  the  left.  Well  done.  Here 's  a  level :  now 
trot  a  bit." 

So  we  went  on,  —  sometimes  up  hill,  sometimes  down 
hill,  —  for  a  long  time,  as  it  seemed.  I  began  to  grow 
chilly,  and  even  Lars  handed  me  the  reins,  while  he  swung 
and  beat  his  arms  to  keep  the  blood  in  circulation.  He 
no  longer  sang  little  songs  and  fragments  of  hymns,  as 
when  we  first  set  out :  but  he  was  not  in  the  least  alarmed 


-»8  59  8«- 

or  even  impatient.  Whenever  I  asked  (as  I  did  about 
every  five  minutes),  '^Are  we  nearly  there?"  he  always 
answered,  "  A  little  farther." 

9.  Suddenly  the  wind  seemed  to  increase. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  now  I  know  where  we  are  :  it 's  one 
mile  more."  But  one  mile,  you  must  remember,  meant 
seven. 

Lars  checked  the  horse  and  peered  anxiously  from  side 
to  side  in  the  darkness.  I  looked  also,  but  could  see 
nothing. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  finally  asked. 

"We  have  got  past  the  hills  on  the  left,"  he  said. 
"The  country  is  open  to  the  wind,  and  here  the  snow 
drifts  worse  than  anywhere  else  on  the  road.  If  there 
have  been  no  ploughs  out  to-night  we  '11  have  trouble." 

10.  In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  could  see  that 
the  horse  was  sinking  in  the  deep  snow.  He  plunged 
bravely  forward,  but  made  scarcely  any  headway,  and 
presently  became  so  exhausted  that  he  stood  quite  still. 
Lars  and  I  arose  from  the  seat  and  looked  around.  For 
my  part,  I  saw  nothing  except  some  very  indistinct  shapes 
of  trees ;  there  was  no  sign  of  an  opening  through  them. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  horse  started  again,  and  with  great 
labor  carried  us  a  few  yards  farther. 

"  Shall  we  get  out  and  try  to  find  the  road  ?  "  said  I. 
"It's  no  use,"  Lars  answered.     "In  these  new  drifts 


-^60  8*^ 

we  would  sink  to  the  waist.     Wait  a  little  and  we  shall 
get  through  this  one." 

11.  It  was  as  he  said.  Another  pull  brought  us  through 
the  deep  part  of  the  drift,  and  we  reached  a  place  where 
the  snow  was  quite  shallow.  But  it  was  not  the  hard, 
smooth  surface  of  the  road:  we  could  feel  that  the  ground 
was  uneven  and  covered  with  roots  and  bushes. 


SEEKING  REFUGE  FROM  THE  STORM 


Bidding  Axel  stand  still,  Lars  jumped  out  of  the  sled 
and  began  wading  around  among  the  trees.  Then  I  got 
out  on  the  other  side,  but  had  not  proceeded  ten  steps 
before  I  began  to  sink  so  deeply  into  the  loose  snow  that 
I  was  glad  to  extricate  myself  and  return.  It  was  a 
desperate  situation,  and  I  wondered  how  we  should  ever 
get  out  of  it. 


-48  61  9«^ 

12.  I  shouted  to  Lars,  in  order  to  guide  him,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  he  also  came  back  to  the  sled.  "  If 
I  knew  where  the  road  is,"  said  he,  "  I  could  get  into  it 
again.  But  I  don't  know;  and  I  think  we  must  stay 
here  all  night." 

"  We  shall  freeze  to  death  in  an  hour !  "  I  cried.  I  was 
already  chilled  to  the  bone.  The  wind  had  made  me 
very  drowsy,  and  I  knew  that  if  I  slept  I  should  soon  be 
frozen. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  exclaimed  Lars,  cheerfully.  "  I  am  a  Norr- 
lander,  and  Norrlanders  never  freeze.  I  went  with  the 
men  to  the  bear  hunt  last  winter  up  on  the  mountains, 
and  we  were  several  nights  in  the  snow.  Besides,  I  know 
what  my  father  did  with  a  gentleman  from  Stockholm  on 
this  very  road,  and  we  '11  do  it  to-night." 

^<  What  was  it?" 

"  Let  me  take  care  of  Axel  first,"  said  Lars.  "  We  can 
spare  him  some  hay  and  one  reindeer  skin." 

13.  It  was  a  slow  task  to  unharness  the  horse,  but  we 
did  it  at  last.  Lars  then  led  him  under  a  fir-tree,  and 
tied  him  to  a  branch,  gave  him  some  hay,  and  fastened 
the  reindeer  skin  upon  his  back. 

When  this  was  done,  Lars  spread  the  remaining  hay 
evenly  over  the  bottom  of  the  sled  and  covered  it  with 
the  skins,  which  he  tucked  in  very  firmly  on  the  side 


-»e  62  8«- 

towards  the  wind.  Then,  lifting  them  on  the  other  side, 
he  said ;  "  Now  take  off  your  fur  coat,  quick,  lay  it  over 
the  hay  and  then  creep  under  it." 

14.  I  obeyed  as  rapidly  as  possible.  For  an  instant  I 
shuddered  in  the  icy  air;  but  the  next  moment  I  lay 
stretched  in  the  bottom  of  the  sled,  sheltered  from  the 
storm.  I  held  up  the  ends  of  the  reindeer  skins  while 
Lars  took  off  his  coat  and  crept  in  beside  me.  Then 
we  drew  the  skins  down  and  pressed  the  hay  against 
them. 

When  the  wind  seemed  to  be  entirely  excluded,  Lars 
said  we  must  pull  off  our  boots,  untie  our  scarfs,  and  so 
loosen  our  clothes  that  they  would  not  feel  tight  upon 
any  part  of  the  body.  When  this  was  done,  and  we  lay 
close  together,  warming  each  other,  I  found  that  the  chill 
gradually  passed  out  of  my  blood. 

15.  A  delightful  feeling  of  comfort  crept  over  me,  and 
I  lay  as  snugly  as  in  the  best  bed.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
that,  although  my  head  was  covered,  I  did  not  feel  stifled. 
Enough  air  came  in  under  the  skins  to  prevent  us  from 
feeling  oppressed. 

There  was  barely  room  for  the  two  of  us  to  lie,  with  no 
chance  of  turning  over  or  rolling  about.  In  five  minutes, 
I  think,  we  were  asleep,  and  I  dreamed  of  gathering 
peaches  on  a  warm  August  day  at  home.  In  fact,  I  did 
not  wake  up  thoroughly  during  the  night;  neither  did 


-»8  68  8«^ 

Lars,  though  it  seemed  to  me  that  we  both  talked  in  our 
sleep. 

Just  as  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  cramped  and 
stiff  from  lying  so  still,  I  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the 
cold  wind  on  my  face.  Lars  had  risen  upon  his  elbow 
and  was  peeping  out  from  under  the  skins. 

16.  "I  think  it  must  be  near  six  o'clock,"  he  said. 
^'  The  sky  is  clear,  and  I  can  see  the  big  star.  We  can 
start  in  another  hour." 

I  felt  so  much-  refreshed  that  I  was  for  setting  out  im- 
mediately ;  but  Lars  remarked,  very  sensibly,  that  it  was 
not  yet  possible  to  find  the  road.  While  we  were  talking, 
Axel  neighed. 

"  There  they  are  !  "  cried  Lars,  and  immediately  began 
to  put  on  his  boots,  his  scarf,  and  heavy  coat.  I  did  the 
same,  and  by  the  time  we  were  ready  we  heard  shouts  and 
the  crack  of  whips.  We  harnessed  Axel  to  the  sled,  and 
proceeded  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  sounds,  which 
came,  as  we  presently  saw,  from  a  company  of  farmers, 
out  thus  early  to  plough  the  road. 

After  they  had  passed,  we  sped  along  merrily  in  the 
cold,  morning  twilight,  and  in  little  more  than  an  hour 
reached  the  post-house. 


-»8  64  8«- 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  MOON. 


By  GEORGE  MacDONALD. 


A  MOST  original  and  interesting  writer  is  George  MacBonald, 
who  was  born  in  1824,  in  a  little  town  in  Scotland,  some  thirty 
miles  or  more  above  Aberdeen.  He  received  a  university  education 
and  entered  the  ministry.     Like  all  Scotchmen,  he  dearly  loves 

his  native  land,  and  during  all  of 
his  life  has  been  a  deep  student 
of  Scottish  life  and  scenery. 

Years  ago  Mr.  MacDonald  was 
obliged  to  give^up  regular  preach- 
ing on  account  of  his  health.  He 
began  to  describe  the  Scottish  life 
and  scenery  which  were  so  dear 
and  familiar  to  him.  He  has 
written  some  powerful  novels,  rich 
in  thought,  as  well  as  a  great 
number  of  stories  and  poems  for 
young  people. 

His  fairy  tales,  especially  "  At  the  Back  of  the  North  Wind," 
"The  Princess  and  the  Goblin,"  and  "The  Princess  and  Curdie," 
make  fascinating  reading  for  children,  and  are  full  of  beautiful 
fancies. 

This  genial  Scotch  author  has  made  thousands  of  friends  all 
over  the  world  who  have  never  seen  his  face.  They  have  been 
won  to  him  by  his  writings,  which  appeal  to  their  hearts  and 
stimulate  them  to  better  things. 

Mr.  MacDonald  was  tall,  of  a  fine  figure  and  dignified  presence, 
and  had  a  handsome,  striking  face  with  a  grave  but  sweet  expres- 
sion. He  spoke  with  a  Scottish  accent.  He  preached  now  and  then, 
but  most  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  literary  work.  His  death 
occurred  in  1905. 


-^  65  8«^ 

Said  the  wind  to  the  moon,  "  I  will  blow  you  out. 

You  stare 

In  the  air 

Like  a  ghost  in  a  chair, 
Always  looking  what  I  'm  about. 
I  hate  to  be  watched  ;  I  will  blow  you  out." 

The  v/ind  blew  hard,  and  out  went  the  moon. 

So  deep 

On  a  heap 

Of  cloudless  sleep, 
Down  lay  the  wind,  and  slumbered  soon. 
Muttering  low  —  ''I  Ve  done  for  that  moon." 

He  turned  in  his  bed ;  she  was  there  again ! 
On  high 
In  the  sky 
With  her  ghost  eye, 

The  moon  shone  white  and  alive  and  plain ; 

Said  the  wind  —  "1  will  blow  you  out  again." 

He  blew,  and  he  blew,  and  she  thinned  to  a  thread. 
"One  puff 
More  's  enough 
To  blow  her  to  snuff ! 
One  good  puff  more  where  the  last  was  bred. 
And  glimmer,  glum  will  go  the  thread." 


-»8  66  8«- 

He  blew  a  great  blast,  and  the  thread  was  gone ; 

In  the  air 

Nowhere 

Was  a  moonbeam  bare  ; 
Far  off  and  harmless  the  sky  stars  shone ; 
Sure  and  certain  the  moon  was  gone  ! 

The  wind  took  to  his  revels  once  more. 

On  down, 

In  town, 

Like  a  merry-mad  clown, 
He  leaped  and  halloed  with  whistle  and  roar. 
"  What 's  that  ?  "    The  glimmering  thread  once  more. 

He  flew  in  a  rage  —  he  danced  and  blew ; 

But  in  vain 
■  Was  the  pain 

Of  his  bursting  brain  ; 
For  still  broader  the  moon-scrap  grew. 
The  broader  he  swelled  his  big  cheeks,  and  blew. 

Slowly  she  grew — till  she  filled  the  night 

And  shone 

On  the  throne 

In  the  sky  alone, 
A  matchless,  wonderful,  silvery  light. 
Radiant  and  lovely,  the  queen  of  the  night. 


-^  67  8^ 

Said  the  wind  —  "  What  a  marvel  of  power  am  I ! 
With  my  breath, 
Good  faith, 
I  blew  her  to  death, 
First  blew  her  away  right  out  of  the  sky, 
Then  blew  her  in  ;  what  strength  am  I ! " 

But  the  moon  knew  nothing  about  the  affair ; 

For  high 

In  the  sky 

With  her  one  white  eye. 
Motionless,  miles  above  the  air. 
She  had  never  heard  the  great  wind  blare. 


THE  MOUSE  AND  THE  MOONBEAM. 

(Abridged.) 

From  "A  Little  Book  of  Profitable  Tales,"  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
Copyright,  1889,  by  Eugene  Field. 

Eugene  Field  is  a  writer  who  belongs  to  every  one.  The  East 
and  the  West  both  claim  him,  and  he  has  written  as  much  for 
children  as  for  older  people. 

His  writing  was  so  largely  the  expression  of  a  warm,  loving 
heart  that  no  one  could  be  left  out  or  forgotten  in  the  songs  that 
sprang  from  its  depths. 

He  was  born  in  the  city  of  St.  Louis,  in  September,  1850. 
At  the  death  of  his  mother,  when  Eugene  was  six  years  old, 
he   and    his   brother    Roswell   were    taken   to    Amherst,  Mass., 


-»6  68  8«- 


where  their  cousin  cared  for  them  like  a  mother.  Eugene  was  a 
happy,  loving  boy,  very  fond  of  pets.  He  had  an  odd  name  for 
every  cat,  dog,  or  bird,  and  talked  with  them  as  if  they  understood 

him.  In  after  years  he  gave  his 
children  just  such  odd  pet  names. 
His  early  education  was  re- 
ceived at  Amherst.  He  was  but 
an  ordinary  scholar,  but  had  a 
marked  talent  for  drawing  and 
would  often  spend  an  hour  deco- 
rating a  letter  with  elves  and 
brownies.  His  father  was  a  great 
student,  and  the  boys  at  one  time 
carried  on  a  correspondence  with 
him  in  Latin.  After  studying 
at  Williams  and  Knox  Colleges, 
Eugene  joined  his  brother  at  the  University  of  Missouri,  and  there 
finished  his  education. 

After  a  trip  abroad,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Comstock,  the  sister 
of  a  college  friend.  He  now  began  work  in  earnest  on  a  newspaper 
in  St.  Louis,  becoming  quite  famous  in  his  line  of  writing.  In 
1883  he  went  to  Chicago,  where  he  remained  the  rest  of  his  life. 
His  poetic  talent  was  very  slow  in  showing  itself,  the  first  poem  of 
any  merit  being  written  when  he  was  thirty.  His  earlier  writings 
were  on  the  comic  line,  and  it  was  not  until  after  the  publication  of 
"  Little  Boy  Blue  "  that  the  deeper  fountains  of  his  genius  became 
apparent. 

Unlike  most  writers,  he  loved  to  have  others  near  him  while  he 
worked.  He  delighted  in  Nature,  but  wished  some  dear  companion 
close  at  hand  to  share  his  pleasure  in  her.  Many  were  the  boyhood 
rambles  he  took  over  the  hills  about  Amherst,  and  in  later  life  his 
eye  was  quick  to  notice  and  delight  in  the  changes  in  the  landscape 
about  him.  He  made  friends  everywhere,  but  was  at  his  best  in 
his  family.  Much  of  his  tenderest  verse  is  full  of  bright  pictures 
of  his  home  life.     Mr.  Field  died  in  1895. 


-»6  69  8«- 

dig'ni  fled  pas'tur  age 

ex'^  cut  mg  ver'dure 

leagues  heavi'te  ous 

In  ter  rupt'  il  lu'mmed 

1.  Whilst  you  were  sleeping,  little  Dear-my-Soul, 
strange  things  happened ;  but  that  I  saw  and  heard  them, 
I  should  never  have  believed  them.  The  clock  stood,  of 
course,  in  the  corner,  a  moonbeam  floated  idly  on  the 
floor,  and  a  little  mauve  mouse  came  from  the  hole  in  the 
chimney  corner  and  frisked  and  scampered  in  the  light  of 
the  moonbeam  upon  the  floor. 

The  little  mauve  mouse  was  particularly  merry  ;  some- 
times she  danced  upon  two  legs  and  sometimes  upon 
four  legs,  but  always  very  daintily  and  always  very 
merrily. 

2.  "Ah,  me!"  sighed  the  old  clock,  "how  different 
mice  are  nowadays  from  the  mice  we  used  to  have  in  the 
good  old  times !  Now  there  was  your  grandma,  Mistress 
Velvetpaw,  and  there  was  your  grandpa.  Master  Sniff- 
whisker,  —  how  gra.ve  and  dignified  they  were  ! 

"Many  a  night  have  I  seen  them  dancing  upon  the 
carpet  below  me,  but  always  the  stately  minuet  and 
never  that  crazy  frisking  which  you  are  executing  now, 
to  my  surprise  —  yes,  and  to  my  horror,  too." 

"But  why  shouldn't  I  be  merry?"  asked  the  little 


-»8  70  8«- 


THE 


OLD  CLOCK  CHATS  WITH  THE 
MAUVE  MOUSE 


mauve  mouse.  ^^  To-morrow 
is  Christmas,  and  this  is 
Christmas  eve." 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  old 
clock.  "1  had  really  for- 
gotten all  about  it.  But, 
tell  me,  what  is  Christmas 
to  you,  little  Miss  Mauve 
Mouse?" 

3.  "A  great  deal  to  me!  " 
cried  the  little  mauve  mouse. 
"1  have  been  very  good  a 
very  long  time :  I  have  not 
used  any  bad  words,  nor  have 
I  gnawed  any  holes,  nor  have 
I  stolen  any  canary  seed,  nor 
have  I  worried  my  mother 
by  running  behind  the  flour 
barrel  where  that  horrid  trap 
is  set.  In  fact,  I  have  been 
so  good  that  I'm  very  sure 
Santa  Claus  will  bring  me 
something  very  pretty." 

This  seemed  to  amuse  the 
old  clock  mightily ;  in  fact, 
the  old  clock  fell  to  laughing 


-^71  8«- 

so  heartily  that  she  struck  twelve  instead  of  ten^  which 
was  exceedingly  careless. 

4.  "Why,  you  silly  little  mauve  mouse,"  said  the  old 
clock,  "  you  don't  believe  in  Santa  Claus,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  answered  the  little  mauve  mouse. 
"Believe  in  Santa  Claus?  Why  shouldn't  I?  Didn't 
Santa  Claus  bring  me  a  beautiful  butter-cracker  last 
Christmas,  and  a  lovely  gingersnap,  and  a  delicious  rind 
of  cheese,  and  —  and  - —  lots  of  things  ?  I  should  be  very 
ungrateful  if  I  did  not  believe  in  Santa  Claus,  and  I 
certainly  shall  not  disbelieve  in  him  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  am  expecting  him  to  arrive  with  a  bundle  of 
goodies  for  me." 

5.  "  But  if  you  believe  in  Santa  Claus,  why  aren't  you 
in  bed  ?"  said  the  old  clock. 

"That's  where  I  shall  be  presently,"  answered  the 
little  mauve  mouse,  "  but  I  must  have  my  scamper,  you 
know.  It  is  very  pleasant,  I  assure  you,  to  frolic  in  the 
light  of  the  moon  ;  only  I  cannot  understand  why  you 
are  always  so  cold  and  so  solemn  and  so  still,  you  pale, 
pretty  little  moonbeam." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  so,"  said  the  moon- 
beam. "  But  I  am  very  old,  and  I  have  traveled  many, 
many  leagues,  and  I  have  seen  wondrous  things.  Some- 
times I  toss  upon  the  ocean,  sometimes  I  fall  upon  a 
slumbering  flower.     I  see  the  fairies  at  their  play,  and  I 


-^  72  8<- 

hear  mothers  singing  lullabies.    Last  night  I  swept  across 
the  frozen  bosom  of  a  river." 

6.  "How  strangely  you  talk/'  said  the  old  clock. 
"  Now,  I  '11  warrant  me  that,  if  you  wanted  to,  you  could 
tell  many  a  pretty  and  wonderful  story.  You  must  know 
many  a  Christmas  tale ;  pray,  tell  us  one  to  wear  away 
this  night  of  Christmas  watching." 

"  I  know  but  one,"  said  the  moonbeam.  "  I  have  told 
it  over  and  over  again,  in  every  land  and  in  every  home  ; 
yet  I  do  not  weary  of  it.  It  is  very  simple.  Should  you 
like  to  hear  it  ?  " 

"  Indeed  we  should,"  said  the  old  clock ;  "  but  before 
you  begin,  let  me  strike  twelve,  for  I  should  n't  want  to 
interrupt  you." 

7.  When  the  old  clock  had  performed  this  duty,  the 
moonbeam  began  its  story :  — 

"  Upon  a  time  —  so  long  ago  that  I  can't  tell  how  long 
ago  it  was — I  fell  upon  a  hillside.  It  was  in  a  far  distant 
country;  this  I  know,  because,  although  it  was  the  Christ- 
mas time,  it  was  not  in  that  country  as  it  is  wont  to  be  in 
countries  to  the  north.  Hither  the  snow  king  never 
came ;  flowers  bloomed  all  the  year,  and  at  all  times  the 
lambs  found  pleasant  pasturage  on  the  hillsides. 

"  The  night  wind  was  balmy,  and  there  was  a  fragrance 
of  cedar  in  its  breath.  There  were  violets  oh  the  hillside, 
and  I  fell  amongst  them  and  lay  there.     I  kissed  them 


-»9  73  8«- 

and  they  awakened.  ^Ah,  is  it  you,  little  moonbeam?' 
tliey  said,  and  they  nestled  in  the  grass  which  the  lambs 
had  left  uncropped. 

8.  "A  shepherd  lay  upon  a  broad  stone  on  the  hillside ; 
above  him  spread  an  olive  tree,  old,  ragged,  and  gloomy. 
The  shepherd's  name  was  Benoni.  Wearied  with  long 
watching,  he  had  fallen  asleep;  his  crook  had  slipped 
from  his  hand. 

"  Upon  the  hillside,  too,  slept  the  shepherd's  flock.  I 
had  counted  them  again  and  again;  I  had  stolen  across 
their  gentle  faces  and  brought  them  pleasant  dreams  of 
green  pastures  and  of  cool  water-brooks. 

^'  ^  Ah,  is  it  you,  little  moonbeam  ? '  quoth  the  violets. 
^You  have  come  in  good  time.  Nestle  here  with  us,  and 
see  wonderful  things  come  to  pass.' 

" '  What  are  these  wonderful  things  of  which  you 
speak  ? '  I  asked. 

9.  " '  We  heard  the  old  olive  tree  telling  of  them  to- 
night,' said  the  violets. 

"  ^  Do  not  go  to  sleep,  little  violets,'  said  the  old  olive 
tree,  ^  for  this  is  Christmas  night,  and  the  Master  shall 
walk  upon  the  hillside  in  the  glory  of  the  midnight 
hour.' 

"  So  we  waited  and  watched ;  one  by  one  the  lambs  fell 
asleep;  one  by  one  the  stars  peeped  out ;  the  shepherd 
nodded  and  crooned  and  crooned  and  nodded,  and  at  last 


-»9  74  8^ 

he,  too,  went  fast  asleep,  and  his  crook  slipped  from  his 
keeping. 

"  Then  we  called  to  the  old  olive  tree  yonder,  asking 
how  soon  the  midnight  hour  would  come ;  but  all  the 
old  olive  tree  answered  was,  '  Presently,  presently,'  and 
finally  we,  too,  fell  asleep,  wearied  by  our  long  watch- 
ing, and  lulled  by  the  rocking  and  swaying  of  the  old 
olive  tree  in  the  breezes  of  the  night. 

10.  "  '  But  who  is  this  Master  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  A  child,  a  little  child,'  they  answered.  '  He  is  called 
the  little  Master  by  the  others.  He  comes  here  often 
and  plays  among  the  flowers  of  the  hillside.  Sometimes 
the  lambs,  gamboling  too  carelessly,  have  crushed  and 
bruised  us  so  that  we  lie  bleeding  and  are  likely  to  die  ; 
but  the  little  Master  heals  our  wounds  and  refreshes  us 
once  again.' 

"  I  marveled  much  to  hear  these  things.  '  The  mid- 
night hour  is  at  hand,'  said  I,  '  and  I  will  abide  with  you 
to  see  this  little  Master  of  whom  you  speak.'  So  we 
nestled  among  the  verdure  of  the  hillside,  and  sang  songs 
one  to  another. 

11.  "  '  Come  away  ! '  called  the  night  wind ;  '  I  know  a 
beauteous  sea  not  far  hence,  upon  whose  bosom  you  shall 
float,  float,  float  away  out  into  the  mists  and  clouds,  if 
you  will  come  with  me.' 

"  But  I  hid  under  the  violets  and  amid  the  tall  grass, 


-*»8  75  8«- 

that  the  night  wind  might  not  woo  me  with  its  pleading. 
'  Ho  there,  old  olive  tree !  '  cried  the  violets  ;  '  do  you 
see  the  little  Master  coming  ?  Is  not  the  midnight  hour 
at  hand  ? ' 

" '  I  can  see  the  town  yonder/  said  the  old  olive  tree. 
^A  star  beams  bright  over  Bethlehem,  the  iron  gates 
swing  open,  and  the  little  Master  comes.' 

12.  "Two  children  came  to  the  hillside.  The  one, 
older  than  his  comrade,  was  Dimas,  the  son  of  Benoni. 
He  was  rugged  and  sinewy,  and  over  his  brown  shoulders 
was  flung  a  goatskin ;  a  leathern  cap  did  not  confine  his 
long,  dark,  curly  hair.  The  other  child  was  he  whom 
they  called  the  little  Master ;  about  his  slender  form 
clung  raiment  white  as  snow,  and  around  his  face  of 
heavenly  innocence  fell  curls  of  golden  yellow. 

"  So  beautiful  a  child  I  had  not  seen  before,  nor  have  I 
ever  since  seen  such  as  he.  .  And  as  they  came  together 
to  the  hillside,  there  seemed  to  glow  about  the  little 
Master's  head  a  soft  white  light,  as  if  the  moon  had  sent 
its  tenderest,  fairest  beams  to  kiss  those  golden  curls. 

13.  "'  What  sound  was  that  ? '  cried  Dimas,  for  he  was 
exceeding  fearful. 

"'Have  no  fear,  Dimas,'  said  the  little  Master.  'Give 
me  thy  hand,  and  I  will  lead  thee.' 

"  Presently  they  came  to  the  rock  whereon  Benoni,  the 
shepherd,  lay ;  and  they  stood  under  the  old  olive  tree, 


-18  76  St- 
and the  old  olive  tree  swayed  no  longer  in  the  night  wind, 
but  bent  its  branches  reverently  in  the  presence  of  the 
little  Master.  It  seemed  as  if  the  wind,  too,  stayed  in  its 
shifting  course  just  thenj  for  suddenly  there  was  a 
solemn  hush. 

"  <  Thy  father  sleeps,'  said  the  little  Master,  ^  and  it  is 
well  that  it  is  so ;  for  that  I  love  thee,  Dimas,  and  that 
thou  shalt  walk  with  me  in  my  Father's  kingdom,  I 
would  show  thee  the  glories  of  my  birthright.' 

14.  "Then  all  at  once  sweet  music  filled  the  air,  and 
light,  greater  than  the  light  of  day,  illumined  the  sky  and 
fell  upon  all  that  hillside.  The  heavens  opened,  and 
angels,  singing  joyous  songs,  walked  to  the  earth.  More 
wondrous  still,  the  stars,  falling  from  their  places  in  the 
sky,  clustered  upon  the  old  olive  tree,  and  swung  hither 
and  thither  like  colored  lanterns.  The  flowers  of  the  hill- 
side all  awakened,  and  they,  too,  danced  and  sang. 

"  The  angels,  coming  hither,  hung  gold  and  silver  and 
jewels  and  precious  stones  upon  the  old  olive,  where 
swung  the  stars ;  so  that  the  glory  of  that  sight,  though 
I  might  live  forever,  I  shall  never  see  again. 

"  When  Dimas  heard  and  saw  these  things  he  fell  upon 
his  knees,  and  catching  the  hem  of  the  little  Master's 
garment,  he  kissed  it. 

"  ^  Greater  joy  than  this  shall  be  thine,  Dimas,'  said 
the  little  Master ;  '  but  first  must  all  things  be  fulfilled.' 


-»8  77  8«- 

15.  "  All  through  that  Christmas  night  did  the  angels 
come  and  go  with  their  sweet  anthems  ;  all  through  that 
Christmas  night  did  the  stars  dance  and  sing ;  and  when 
it  came  my  time  to  steal  away,  the  hillside  was  still  beau- 
tiful with  the  glory  and  the  music  of  heaven." 

"  Well,  is  that  all  ?"  asked  the  old  clock. 

"  No/'  said  the  moonbeam  ;  ''  but  I  am  nearly  done. 
The  years  went  on.  Sometimes  I  tossed  upon  the  ocean's 
bosom,  sometimes  I  scampered  o'er  a  battlefield,  some- 
times I  lay  upon  a  dead  child's  face.  I  heard  the  voices 
of  Darkness  and  mothers'  lullabies  and  sick  men's 
prayers,  —  and  so  the  years  went  on. 

16.  ^- 1  fell  one  night  upon  a  hard  and  furrowed  face. 
It  was  of  ghostly  pallor.  A  thief  was  dying  on  the  cross, 
and  this  was  his  wretched  face.  About  the  cross  stood 
men  with  staves  and  swords  and  spears,  -but  none  paid 
heed  unto  the  thief.  Somewhat  beyond  this  cross  another 
was  lifted  up,  and  upon  it  was  stretched  a  human  body 
my  light  fell  not  upon. 

'^  But  I  heard  a  voice  that  somewhere  I  had  heard 
before,  —  though  where  I  did  not  know,  —  and  this  voice 
blessed  those  that  railed  and  jeered  and  shamefully  en- 
treated. And  suddenly  the  voice  called  '  Dimas,  Dimas ! ' 
and  the  thief  upon  whose  hardened  face  I  rested  made 
answer. 

17.  "Then  I  saw  that  it  was  Dimas ;  yet  to  this  wicked 


-»6  78  8f^ 

criminal  there  remained  but  little  of  the  shepherd  child 
whom  I  had  seen  in  all  his  innocence  upon  the  hillside. 
Long  years  of  sinful  life  had  seared  their  marks  into  his 
face ;  yet  now,  at  the  sound  of  that  familiar  voice,  some- 
what of  the  old-time  boyish  look  came  back,  and  I  seemed 
to  see  the  shepherd's  son  again. 

"  ^  The  Master  ! '  cried  Dimas,  and  he  stretched  forth 
his  neck  that  he  might  see  him  that  spake. 

"  '  0  Dimas,  how  art  thou  changed  ! '  cried  the  Master, 
yet  there  was  in  his  voice  no  tone  of  rebuke  save  that 
which  Cometh  of  love. 

18.  "  Then  Dimas  wept,  and  in  that  hour  he  forgot  his 
pain.  And  the  Master's  consoling  voice  and  the  Master's 
presence  there  wrought  in  the  dying  criminal  such  a  new 
spirit  that  when  at  last  his  head  fell  upon  his  bosom,  and 
the  men  about  the  cross  said  that  he  was  dead,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  shined,  not  upon  a  felon's  face,  but  upon  the  face 
of  the  gentle  shepherd  lad,  the  son  of  Benoni. 

"And  shining  on  that  dead  and  peaceful  face,  I  be- 
thought me  of  the  little  Master's  words  that  he  had 
spoken  under  the  old  olive  tree  upon  the  hillside  : '  Your 
eyes  behold  the  promised  glory  now,  0  Dimas,'  I  whispered, 
^for  with  the  Master  you  walk  in  Paradise.'  " 

19.  Ah,  little  Dear-my-Soul,  you  know — you  know 
whereof  the  moonbeam  spake.  The  shepherd's  bones  are 
dust,  the  flocks  are  scattered,  the  old  olive  tree  is  gone, 


-^  79  8«- 

the  flowers  of  ^he  hillside  are  withered,  and  none  knoweth 
where  the  grave  of  Dimas  is  made.  But  last  night 
again  there  shined  a  star  over  Bethlehem,  and  the  angels 
descended  from  the  sky  to  earth,  and  the  stars  sang 
together  in  glory. 

And  the  bells,  —  hear  them,  little  Dear-my-Soul,  how 
sweetly  they  are  ringing,  —  the  bells  bear  us  the  good 
tidings  of  great  joy  this  Christmas  morning,  that  our 
Christ  is  born,  and  that  with  him  he  bringeth  peace  on 
earth  and  goodwill  toward  men. 


THE   STORY   OF   FLORINDA. 

By  ABBY  MORTON  DIAZ. 

m(5c'ca  sm  mes'sen  ger 

es  pe^cial  ly  cour  Wgeous 

1.  Mr.  Bowen  came  over  from  England  more  than 
two  hundred  years  ago,  bringing  his  family  with  him. 
The  country  was  then  covered  with  woods.  Indians, 
deer,  wolves,  and  foxes  had  it  pretty  much  to  themselves. 

There  was  one  other  house  in  the  valley,  and  only  one, 
and  that  belonged  to  a  man  named  Moore.  Four  miles 
away,  at  the  Point,  there  were  some  dozen  or  twenty 
houses,  a   store,  and  a  mill ;   no  road   between,  only  a 


-»6  80  8«- 

blind  pathway  through  the  woods.     Those? woods  reached 
hundreds  of  miles. 

2.  Mr.  Bo  wen  had  lived  in  this  country  a  little  more 
than  a  year  when  his  wife  died,  leaving  three  children,  — 
Philip,  not  quite  eleven,  Nathaniel,  six,  and  Polly,  three. 

He  hired  a  young  girl  to  take  care  of  these  children 
and  to  keep  house  for  him.  Her  name  was  Florinda 
LeShore.  She  was  born  in  France,  but  had  spent  the 
greater  part  of  her  life  in  England.  She  was  only  fifteen 
years  old. 

3.  Florinda  went  to  Mr.  Bowen's  house  sometime  in 
November.  On  the  29th  of  December,  as  Mr.  Bowen 
and  Mr.  Moore  were  saddling  their  horses  to  go  to  the 
store,  word  came  that  they  must  start  at  once  for  a  place 
about  fifteen  miles  away  to  consult  with  other  settlers 
as  to  what  should  be  done  to  defend  themselves  against 
the  Indians. 

So  the  two  men  turned  their  horses'  heads  in  the 
direction  of  Dermott's  Crossing,  and  thought  they  should 
make  good  time  and  be  back  by  noon  of  the  next  day. 

4.  Two  days  and  two  nights  passed,  and  they  had 
neither  come  nor  sent  any  message.  By  that  time  there 
was  not  much  left  to  eat  in  either  house.  Florinda  and 
the  children  slept  both  nights  at  Mrs.  Moore's.  Mrs. 
Moore's  house  was  built  of  heavy  timbers,  and  its  doors 
were  oak,  studded  with  spikes. 


-46  81  8i- 

The  Indians  never  attacked  a  strong  house  like  that^ 
especially  if  guarded  by  a  white  man  with  firearms. 
Mrs.  Moore  was  a  feeble  woman.  She  had  two  little 
children,  and  her  brother  was  then  living  with  her,  —  a 
young  man  named  David  Palmer,  at  that  time  confined 
indoors  on  account  of  having  frozen  his  feet  badly. 

5.  On  the  second  morning  Philip  said  to  Florinda  that 
he  would  take  his  hand  sled  and  go  through  the  woods 
to  the  store  and  get  some  meal  and  some  bacon  for  them- 
selves and  Mrs.  Moore.  Florinda  felt  loath  to  let  him  go. 
It  was  a  long  distance,  the  snow  was  deep,  —  no  track, 
and  woods  nearly  all  the  way.  But  Philip  said  that  he 
was  n't  afraid ;  the  oldest  boy  ought  to  take  care  of  the 
family;  and  at  last  Florinda  said  he  might  go.  For, 
unless  he  did,  they  might  all  starve,  especially  if  there 
should  come  on  a  heavy  snowstorm.  . 

6.  Florinda  spent  the  day  in  spinning  and  in  other 
work  for  the  family.  As  soon  as  it  began  to  grow  dark, 
Mrs.  Moore  sent  her  little  boy  over  to  inquire.  Florinda 
sent  word  back  that  Philip  had  not  come,  and  that  she 
should  wait  until  he  did  come  before  going  over  to  Mrs. 
Moore's. 

After  the  boy  had  gone  back,  Florinda  barred  the  door 
and  shut  all  the  window  shutters  but  one.  She  left  that 
open  so  that  Philip  might  see  the  firelight  shining  through. 
The  children  began  to  cry  because  Philip  was  out  all 


-^  82  8«- 

alone  in  the  dark  woods,  and  Florinda  did  everything 
she  could  to  take  up  their  minds.  Nathaniel  told  after- 
ward of  her  rolling  up  the  cradle  quilt  into  a  baby  for 
little  Polly,  and  pinning  an  apron  on  it,  and  of  her  setting 
him  letters  to  copy  on  the  bellows  with  chalk. 

At  last  little  Polly  fell  asleep  and  was  put  into  bed. 
Nathaniel  laid  his  head  on  Florinda's  lap  and  dropped 
asleep  there,  and  slept  till  she  got  up  to  put  more  wood 
on.  It  was  then  nearly  twelve  o'clock.  Nathaniel  woke 
in  a  fright.  He  had  been  dreaming  about  wolves,  which 
made  him  cry. 

7.  In  the  midst  of  his  crying  there  came  a  tap  at  the 
door.  Florinda  made  no  answer.  Then  a  voice  said 
softly, " Florinda?"  It  was  the  young  man,  David  Palmer, 
Mrs.  Moore's  brother.  He  had  crawled  all  the  way 
between  the  two  houses  to  see  if  they  were  safe  and  if 
they  would  not  come  over.  Florinda  said  no,  that  she 
had  plenty  of  work  to  do  and  was  not  afraid,  and  meant 
to  stay  and  keep  a  good  fire  for  Philip. 

The  young  man  told  her  the  window  shutter  ought  to 
be  shut,  to  keep  the  light  from  shining  out,  in  case  any 
Indians  might  be  going  through  the  woods ;  that  when 
Philip  got  within  half  a  mile  of  the  house  he  could  keep 
his  course  by  the  brook.  Florinda  closed  the  shutter.  He 
then  told  her  something,  in  a  tone  of  voice  too  low  for 
the  children  to  hear,  which  made  her  look  quite  thoughir 


■^♦8  83  of*" 

ful.  He  pointed  to  a  knot  hole  in  the  shutter,  and  she 
hung  a  shawl  over  it.  Then  he  dried  his  fur  mittens  a 
few  minutes  longer  at  the  blaze,  and  went  back  to  stay 
with  his  sister. 

8.  When  the  young  man  had  been  gone  a  little  while, 
Nathaniel  climbed  up  and  looked  through  the  knot  hole, 
and  told  Florinda  he  saw  a  fire  in  the  woods.  Florinda 
said  she  thought  not,  may  be  it  was  the  moon  rising,  and 
kept  on  with  her  spinning.  By  and  by  he  looked  again, 
and  said  he  did  see  a  fire  and  some  Indians  sitting  down 
by  it. 

Florinda  left  her  wheel  then  and  looked  through, 
and  said  yes,  it  was  so.  She  kept  watch  afterwards, 
and  saw  them  put  out  the  fire  and  go  away  into  the 
woods  toward  the  Point.  By  this  time  it  was  pretty 
near  morning. 

On  the  back  side  of  the  hut,  near  the  fireplace,  there 
had  been  in  the  summer  a  hole  or  tunnel  dug  through  to 
the  outside  under  the  logs.  It  was  begun  by  a  tame 
rabbit  that  belonged  to  Nathaniel. 

9.  The  children  at  play  dug  the  hole  deeper  and  wider, 
and  it  came  quite  handy  in  getting  in  firewood.  This 
passage  was  about  four  feet  deep.  They  called  it  the 
"  back  doorway."  When  winter  came  on  it  was  filled  up 
with  sand  and  moss.  No  doubt  Florinda  planned  exactly 
what  to  do  in  case  of  an  attack,  as  she  spent  the  latter 


-»6  84  8«- 

part  of  that  night  in  taking  the  filling  from  the  "  back 
doorway." 

She  said  a  great  deal  to  Nathaniel  about  taking  care 
of  little  Polly,  —  told  him  that  if  any  bad  Indians  came  to 
the  door,  he  must  catch  hold  of  her  hand  and  run  just  as 
fast  as  he  could,  through  the  "  back  way/'  to  Mrs.  Moore's. 

10.  While  she  was  talking  to  Nathaniel,  in  the  way  I 
have  said,  they  all  heard  a  step  outside.  It  was  then  a 
little  after  daybreak.  Some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and 
a  strange  voice  said,  ^' A  friend,  open  quick!  "  She  opened 
the  door  and  found  a  white  man  standing  there.  This 
white  man  told  her  that  unfriendly  Indians  were  prowling 
about  to  rob,  to  kill,  and  to  burn  dwelling-houses. 

The  man  was  a  messenger  sent  to  warn  people.  As 
soon  as  he  had  gone  Florinda  double-barred  the  door,  raked 
up  the  fire,  put  on  her  things  and  the  children's  things,  and 
got  ready  to  go  over  with  them  to  Mrs.  Moore's.  But 
before  starting  she  opened  the  shutter  a  crack  and  looked 
out  and  saw  two  Indians  coming  toward  the  door. 

She  whispered  to  Nathaniel,  "  Run  !  Run !  You  '11  have 
time  !  I  '11  keep  them  out  till  you  get  away!  "  He  heard 
the  Indians  yell  and  saw  Florinda  brace  herself  against 
the  door. 

11.  Nathaniel  ran  with  little  Polly,  and  on  the  way 
they  met  the  young  man,  David  Palmer,  creeping  along 
with  his  gun.     He  was  coming  to  tell  Florinda  to  hurry 


-»8  85  se- 
away. He  presently  saw  two  Indians  start  from  the 
house  and  run  into  the  woods.  He  then  crept  round  the 
corner  of  the  house.  The  door  had  been  cut  away. 
Florinda  lay  across  the  chest,  dead,  as  he  thought,  —  and 
indeed  she  was  badly  hurt. 


FLORINDA    DEFENDS    THE    HOUSE    AGAINST    THE    INDIANS 

David  Palmer  did  everything  he  could  do  to  make  her 
show  some  signs  of  life.  At  last  Florinda  came  to  her 
senses.  She  soon  recovered  and  lived  to  a  good  old  ag6, 
and  often  told  her  adventure  with  the  Indians  to  her 
grandchildren. 

Glancing  toward  the  door,  David  saw  a  man  on  horse- 
back, leading  a  horse  with  his  right  hand,  and  with  his 
left  drawing  something  heavy  on  a  sled. 


-»8  86  8«- 

12.  As  the  man  on  horseback  came  nearer,  it  proved  to 
be  Mr.  Moore.  He  was  leading  Mr.  Bowen's  horse  with 
his  right  hand,  and  with  the  other  he  was  dragging  along 
Mr.  Bo  wen  on  Philip's  hand  sled. 

Coming  home  from  Dermott's  Crossing  Mr.  Bowen  had 
been  taken  sick  and  was  only  able  to  travel  slowly,  with 
Mr.  Moore's  assistance.  When  they  had  nearly  reached 
home,  Mr.  Moore's  dog  in  racing  through  the  woods 
found  Philip's  sled  in  a  clump  of  bushes  and  barked  till 
the  men  went  to  the  spot.  Mr.  Moore  covered  the  sled 
with  boughs,  laid  Mr.  Bowen  on  them,  and  drew  him 
along. 

13.  During  all  this  time  Philip  had  met  with  strange 
adventures.  The  day  he  went  to  the  Point  he  had  to 
wait  for  corn  to  be  ground,  which  made  him  late  in 
starting  for  home.  He  heard  a  good  many  reports  con- 
cerning the  Indians,  and  thought  that  it  would  be  safer  to 
take  a  roundabout  course  back ;  by  doing  this  he  lost  his 
way  and  wandered  in  the  woods  till  almost  twelve  o'clock 
at  night,  when  he  came  out  upon  a  cleared  place  where 
there  were  several  log  huts. 

The  people  in  one  of  these  let  him  come  in  and  sleep 
on  the  floor,  and  they  gave  him  a  good  meal  of  meat  and 
potatoes.  He  set  out  again  between  four  and  five  in  the 
morning,  guided  by  a  row  of  stars  that  those  people 
pointed  out  to  him. 


-^8  87  9^ 

14.  A  little  after  daybreak,  being  then  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  home  in  a  hilly  place,  he  thought 
he  would  leave  his  sled,  the  load  was  so  hard  to  draw, 
and  run  ahead  and  tell  the  folks  about  the  Indians.  Soi 
he  pushed  it  under  some  bushes,  and  then,  to  mark  the 
spot,  he  took  one  of  his  shoestrings  and  tied  one  of  his 
mittens  high  up  on  the  limb  of  a  tree. 

He  heard  strange  sounds  and  climbed  up  into  a  hemlock 
tree  which  overhung  a  brook  to  hide  out  of  sight  and 
to  look  about.  He  lay  along  a  branch  listening,  and 
presently  saw  Nathaniel  hurrying  toward  the  brook,  lead- 
ing little  Polly,  and  was  just  going  to  call  out  when  he 
caught  sight  of  three  Indians  standing  behind  some  trees, 
watching  the  two  children. 

15.  Philip  moved  a  little  to  see  better,  and  by  doing 
this  lost  sight  of  them  a  moment,  and  when  he  looked 
again  they  were  both  gone.  He  heard  a  crackling  in  the 
bushes,  and  caught  sight  of  little  Polly's  blanket  flying 
through  the  woods,  and  knew  then  that  those  Indians 
had  carried  off  Nathaniel  and  little  Polly.  Without 
stopping  to  consider,  he  jumped  down  and  followed  on, 
thinking  to  find  out  where  they  went  and  tell  his  father. 

Philip,  by  one  way  or'  another,  kept  on  the  trail 
of  the  Indians  the  whole  day.  Once  it  was  by  seeing 
a  shred  of  a  blanket.  Another  time  it  was  by  coming 
across  a  knife  the  Indians  had  stolen  from  some  house. 


^  88  8^ 

And  he  had  wit  enough  to  break  a  limb  or  gash  a  tree 
now  and  then  so  as  to  find  his  way  back ;  also  to  take  the 
bearings  of  the  hills.  When  the  Indians  halted  to  rest 
he  had  a  chance  to  rest  too. 

16.  At  last  they  stopped  for  the  night  in  a  valley 
where  there  were  two  or  three  wigwams.  He  watched 
them  go  into  one  of  these,  and  then  he  could  not  think 
what  to  do  next.     The  night  was  setting  in  bitter  cold. 

The  shoe  he  took  the  string  from  had  come  off  in  run- 
ning, and  that  foot  was  nearly  frozen,  and  would  have  been 
quite,  only  for  his  having  tied  some  moss  to  the  bottom  of 
it  with  his  pocket  handkerchief.  The  hand  that  had  no 
mitten  was  frozen.  He  had  eaten  nothing  but  boxberry 
plums  and  boxberry  leaves. 

He  lay  down  on  the  snow.  Then  he  began  to  feel 
sleepy,  and  knew  nothing  more  till  he  woke  inside  of 
a  wigwam,  and  found  two  Indian  women  rubbing  him 
with  snow.  He  did  not  see  Nathaniel  and  little  Polly. 
They  were  in  another  wigwam.  There  were  two  Indians 
squatting  on  the  floor,  one  of  them  quite  old. 

Philip  suffered  dreadful  pain  in  his  foot  and  hand,  but 
he  shut  his  mouth  tight  for  fear  he  might  groan.  He 
said  afterward)  when  questioned  about  this  part  of  his 
story,  that  he  was  not  going  to  let  them  hear  a  white  boy 
groan. 

17.  It  was  probably  seeing  him  so  courageous  that 


gave  them  the  idea  of  offering  him  to  their  chief's  wife. 
It  was  a  custom  among  them,  when  a  chief's  wife  lost  a 
male  child  by  death,  to  offer  her  another,  usually  a  captive 
taken  in  war.  If,  after  seeing  the  child  offered  in  this 
way,  she  refused  to  adopt  him,  he  was  not  suffered  to 
live. 

Now  one  of  those  two  squaws  in  the  wigwam  felt 
inclined  to  keep  Philip  from  being  carried  to  where  the 
chief  lived;  so  next  morning  before  light,  when  the 
Indians  went  off  hunting,  she  sent  the  other  squaw  out 
on  some  errand,  and  then  told  Philip  in  broken  English 
that  he  must  run  away  that  very  morning.  She  bound 
up  his  foot,  gave  him  a  moccasin  to  wear  on  it,  a  bag  of 
pounded  corn,  and  a  few  strips  of  meat. 

18.  As  soon  as  it  began  to  grow  light  he  went  along 
without  much  trouble  by  means  of  the  signs  on  the  trees. 
But  as  he  got  farther  on,  there  being  fewer  of  these 
signs,  he  took  the  wrong  course,  —  very  luckily  as  it 
proved,  for  by  doing  so  he  fell  in  with  two  men  on  horse- 
back, and  one  of  these  carried  him  home. 

Philip  described  the  place  where  the  Indians  were 
encamped,  and  that  very  night  a  party  was  sent  out 
which  captured  the  Indians  and  brought  back  Nathaniel 
and  little  Polly. 


THE   FATE  OF   THE   INDIANS. 

By  CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

Charles  Sprague  was  born  in  Boston  in  1791.  Although  he 
was  employed  for  nearly  forty  years  as  cashier  in  a  bank,  he  spent 
much  time  in  writing. 

He  was  a  great  favorite  as  an  orator.  His  speeches  were  marked 
by  strength  and  a  brilliant  style. 

He  was  a  large-hearted  man,  and  the  fate  of  the  Indian  race 
aroused  his  sympathy.  He  felt  that  they  had  been  wronged  by 
the  white  men. 

The  following  selection  is  taken  from  a  speech  which  he  delivered 
at  Boston  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1825. 

gen  er  actions  se^Zg'y 

em  beriish  es  Sck  MwVMged 

1.  Not  many  generations  ago,  where  you  now  sit  en- 
circled by  all  that  exalts  and  embellishes  civilized  life,  the 
rank  thistle  nodded  in  the  wind  and  the  wild  fox  dug 
his  hole  unscared. 

Here  lived  and  loved  another  race  of  beings.  Beneath 
the  same  sun  that  rolls  over  our  heads  the  Indian  hunter 
pursued  the  panting  deer;  gazing  on  the  same  moon  that 
smiles  for  you,  the  Indian  lover  wooed  his  dusky  mate. 

Here  the  wigwam  blaze  beamed  on  the  tender  and  the 
helpless,  the  council  fire  glared  on  the  wise  and  the 
daring. 


2.,  Now  they  dipped  their  noble  limbs  in  your  sedgy 
lakes,  and  now  they  paddled  the  light  canoe  along  your 
rocky  shores.  Here  they  warred ;  the  echoing  whoop,  the 
defying  death  song,  both  were  here ;  and  when  the  tiger 
strife  was  over,  here  curled  the  smoke  of  peace. 

Here,  too,  they  worshipped;  and  from  many  a  dark 
bosom  went  up  a  pure  prayer  to  the  Great  Spirit.  He 
had  not  written  his  laws  for  them  on  tables  of  stone,  but 
he  had  traced  them  on  the  tables  of  their  hearts.  The 
poor  child  of  nature  knew  not  the  God  of  Revelation,  but 
the  God  of  the  universe  he  acknowledged  in  everything 
around. 

3.  He  beheld  Him  in  the  star  that  sank  in  beauty 
behind  his  lowly  dwelling;  in  the  sacred  orb  that  flamed 
on  him  from  his  midday  throne;  in  the  flower  that 
snapped  in  the  morning  breeze ;  in  the  lofty  pine  that 
had  defied  a  thousand  whirlwinds;  in  the  fearless  eagle 
whose  untired  pinion  was  wet  in  clouds. 

And  all  this  has  passed  away.  Across  the  ocean  came 
a  Pilgrim  bark,  bearing  the  seeds  of  life  and  death.  The 
former  were  sown  for  you,  the  latter  sprang  up  in  the 
path  of  the  simple  native. 

4.  Two  hundred  years  have  changed  the  character  of 
a  great  continent,  and  blotted  forever  from  its  face  a 
whole,  peculiar  people. 

The  Indian  of  falcon  glance  and  lion  bearing,  the  hero 


^  92  8«- 

of  the  pathetic  tale,  is  gone !  And  his  degraded  offspring 
crawl  upon  the  soil,  where  he  walked  in  majesty,  to 
remind  us  how  miserable  is  man  when  the  foot  of  the 
conqueror  is  on  his  neck. 

5.  As  a  race,  they  have  withered  from  the  land. 
Their  arrows  are  broken,  their  springs  have  dried  up, 
their  cabins  are  in  the  dust.  Their  council  fire  has  long 
since  gone  out  on  the  shore,  and  their  war  cry  is  fast 
dying  away  to  the  untrodden  west.  Slowly  and  sadly 
they  climb  the  distant  mountains  and  read  their  doom 
in  the  setting  sun. 

They  are  shrinking  before  the  mighty  tide  which  is 
pressing  them  away;  they  must  soon  hear  the  roar  of 
the  last  wave  which  will  settle  over  them  forever. 


CHARLES    DICKENS. 

Sp  prSss^d'  gen'u  me 

pop  u  lar'i  ty  ig'no  mnqe 

cha  le^'  sym^pa  thy 

(8)        (a) 

1.  There  once  lived  in  England  a  little  boy  whose 
name  was  Charles  Dickens.  He  was  born  at  Portsmouth, 
on  the  7th  of  February,  1812,  his  father  being  a  clerk  in 
the  Navy  Pay  Office  at  that  place.     Mr.  Dickens  lost  this 


-•6  93  8«- 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


position  and  the  family  moved  to  Chatham  when  Charles 
was  four  years  old. 

Charles'  first  teacher  was  his  mother,  who  taught  him 
to  read.  When  he  was  seven  years  old  he  attended  a 
day  school,  and  the  master  soon  saw  that  his  little  pupil 
was  very  clever.  The  boy  was  not  well  and  strong,  so 
he  could  not  join  his  playmates  in  their  games  of  ball 
and  cricket;  but  he  would  lie  on  the  grass  for  hours 
watching  them  with  great  interest. 

2.  He  was  soon  reading  the  best  authors.  Often  when 
suffering  from  pain  he  turned  to  books  for  comfort,  and 
the  people  of  whom  he  read  became  real  friends.  His 
father  had  some  books  which  he  kept  in  an  empty  room, 


-»8  94  8^ 

where  Charles  spent  many  an  hour,  and  he  would  imag- 
ine for  weeks  at  a  time  that  he  was  some  character  in 
them.  He  said:  "Robinson  Crusoe  and  others  came  out, 
a  glorious  host,  to  keep  me  company." 

In  spite  of  his  ill  health  Charles  was  a  light-hearted, 
merry  little  fellow,  full  of  fun  and  very  fond  of  singing. 
His  sister  Fannie  was  musical,  and  she  and  Charles  sang 
together.  When  he  became  a  man  he  amused  his  friends 
and  his  children  with  these  funny  songs. 

3.  It  was  fortunate  that  he  had  this  happy  nature,  for 
it  helped  him  through  the  dark  days  that  came  to  him 
early  in  life.  Soon  after  he  was  nine  years  old  his  father 
had  to  leave  Chatham  and  moved  to  London.  Charles 
was  sorry  to  leave  the  place  which  was  so  dear  to  him. 
No  more  sailing  trips  with  his  father,  no  more  happy 
days  with  his  schoolmates. 

The  night  before  he  went  away  his  schoolmaster  came 
in  and  gave  him  a  book,  "  The  Bee,"  by  Oliver  Goldsmith. 
The  boy  prized  this  very  highly  and  kept  it  many  years. 

His  father  had  lost  money  and  the  new  home  was  in  a 
poor  part  of  London.  Charles  could  find  no  companions 
there,  and  he  used  often  to  sit  in  his  little  garret  room 
and  long  for  the  home  at  Chatham  with  its  woods  and 
fields,  and  for  his  schoolmates.  He  had  no  companions 
of  his  own  age,  for  there  was  no  school  for  him  to  attend, 
and  his  sister  Fannie  was  away  studying  music. 


-^  95  8«- 

4.  Darker  days  yet  were  before  him.  His  father  lost 
what  little  he  had,  and  Charles  went  to  work  in  a  black- 
ing factory.  No  more  schooling  for  him  now;  he  must 
bravely  do  his  part  and  earn  his  own  living.  He  was 
paid  six  shillings  a  week  and  felt  very  proud  as  he  car- 
ried them  home,  gazing  in  at  the  shop  windows  and 
thinking  of  what  his  six  shillings  would  buy. 

Mr.  Dickens,  being  unable  to  pay  his  debts,  was  sent 
to  the  debtor's  prison  soon  after  little  Charles  went  to 
work.  The  boy  now  gave  up  all  hope  of  ever  going 
to  school.  Sadly,  but  bravely,  he  bade  farewell  to  the 
hope  of  doing  and  being  something  in  this  world.  He 
was  alone  and  must  struggle  along  by  himself. 

5.  Mrs.  Dickens  and  the  other  children  went  to  the 
prison  to  live;  but  Charles  was  sent  to  lodge  with  an  old 
lady  in  Camden  Town.  Every  Sunday  he  used  to  walk 
to  the  prison,  where  he  spent  the  day  with  the  family. 

The  poor  boy  was  so  lonely  that  he  finally  begged  his 
father  to  let  him  hire  a  room  near  the  prison  where  he 
might  see  the  family  more  often.  His  father  consented 
and  Charles  found  a  little  attic  room  near  by. 

Two  years  slowly  passed  by  while  the  boy  worked 
nobly  in  the  smoky  old  factory.  He  was  often  too  ill  to 
do  his  work  well,  and  the  days  were  long  and  dreary. 

He  tried  to  study  by  himself,  for  he  was  not  willing 
to  grow  up  in  ignorance,  but  was  too  tired  after  his  day's 


work  to  accomplish  much.  These  years  of  suffering 
made  his  heart  very  tender  toward  children  who  were 
alone  in  the  world  or  oppressed  in  any  way,  and  his 
beautiful  nature  was  not  harmed  by  his  low  sur- 
roundings. 

6.  But  brighter  days  were  at  hand.  His  father  had 
some  money  left  to  him,  and  was  able  to  pay  his  debts 
and  make  a  home  for  his  family. 

It  was  a  happy  day  when  little  Charles  said  good-bye 
to  the  factory  and  went  home  again.  He  was  able  to 
attend  school  once  more,  and  soon  became  a  leader  in  all 
boyish  sports. 

His  health  improved,  and  at  twelve  years  of  age  he 
was  a  bright,  handsome  boy,  full  of  fun,  but  always  kind 
and  thoughtful  of  others.  His  books  were  dearer  than 
ever  to  him,  and  his  favorite  motto  was,  "What  is  worth 
doing  at  all  is  worth  doing  well." 

His  schoolmates  soon  discovered  his  talent  for  story- 
telling, and  would  listen  with  interest  to  his  tales  of 
adventure,  and  he  and  several  of  his  friends  published  a 
little  paper. 

7.  After  his  school  course  was  over,  his  father  wished 
him  to  study  law,  and  he  became  a  clerk  in  a  lawyer's 
office.  He  held  the  position  for  over  a  year,  then  decided 
to  be  a  reporter.  He  spent  some  time  working  at  the 
study  of   shorthand,  studying  at  the  same  time  at   the 


reading  room  of  the  British  Museum.     In  his  eighteenth 
year  he  entered  the  House  of  Commons  as  reporter. 

He  also  found  time  to  write  for  a  magazine.  These 
sketches  were  full  of  wit  and  humor,  and  the  style  was 
so  new  that  they  soon   made  the  author   famous.     He 


DICKENS'    HOME    AT    GADSHILL 


signed  them  "  Boz,"  a  nickname  which  he  had  given  in 
sport  to  his  youngest  brother. 

8.  In  1836  Dickens  published  "  Sketches  by  Boz  "  and 
"  The  Pickwick  Papers."  These  placed  him  at  once  in 
the  highest  rank  of  English  authors.  Many  other  books 
followed,  and   his  writing  increased  in  popularity.     He 


-^  98  9«- 

was  always  hard  at  work,  and  lived  in  the  book  he  was 
writing,  suffering  or  rejoicing  with  his  characters. 

He  was  married  in  1836,  the  year  his  first  books  were 
published,  and  his  home  was  soon  made  glad  with  the 
sound  of  childish  voices.  How  dear  to  the  great  man 
were  these  little  ones,  and  what  a  gentle,  loving  father 
they  had !  He  had  never  shut  his  heart  against  suffering, 
and  was  full  of  sympathy  for  every  childish  sorrow. 

9.  When  he  was  a  very  small  boy  and  lived  in  Chatham, 
he  used  once  in  a  while  to  walk  by  a  large  old-fashioned 
house  on  the  top  of  a  hill  called  "Gadshill."  He  had 
a  great  liking  for  this  house,  perhaps  because  of  two  fine 
cedars  that  grew  near  it. 

His  father  used  to  tell  him  that  if  he  worked  hard  he 
might  live  there  when  he  was  a  man.  After  he  became 
successful  he  bought  this  very  house  and  spent  many 
happy  years  in  it.  In  this  beautiful  home  he  received 
his  friends. 

10.  He  had  a  little  chalet  or  summer-house  where  he 
wrote.  He  says  of  it:  "My  room  is  up  among  the 
branches  of  the  trees;  and  the  birds  and  the  butterflies 
fly  in  and  out,  and  the  green  branches  shoot  in  at  the 
open  windows,  and  the  light  and  shadows  of  the  clouds 
come  and  go  with  the  rest  of  the  company." 

Many  of  his  stories  were  played  on  the  stage,  and  he 
gave  readings  from  his  own  books.     There  was  a  wonder- 


-48  99  8«- 

ful  charm  in  his  voice  ana  expression,  and  his  hearers 
were  moved  to  tears  or  laughter  bj  the  magic  of  his 
tones. 

He  made  two  visits  to  this  country,  where  he  met  with 
the  heartiest  reception. 

11.  Dickens  died  on  the  9th  of  June,  1870,  in  his  home 
at  Gadshill,  and  lies  buried  among  England's  honored 
dead  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Wreaths  of  flowers  are  placed  by  his  fond  admirers 
many  times  every  year  upon  the  stone  that  marks  his 
burial  place  in  the  old  Abbey. 


DICKENS'    GRAVE    IN    WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


THE   DOLLS'    DRESSMAKER. 

By  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

This  is  a  brief  extract  from  "  Our  Mutual  Friend."  This  novel 
is  not  especially  interesting  to  boys  and  girls  save  those  parts  of  it 
which  pertain  to  Jenny  Wren,  the  dolls'  dressmaker.  Jenny  is  one 
of  the  quaintest  and  oddest  creations  of  this  masterly  writer  who 
has  delineated  so  many  lovable  characters  which  appeal  to  the 
hearts  of  young  people. 

This  extract  has  been  compiled  from  Book  II,  Chapter  I,  of  the 
novel. 

More  extended  selections  from  this  chapter  and  from  several 
other  chapters  which  describe  Jenny  Wren  and  her  friends  should 
be  arranged  by  the  teacher  for  the  pupils,  as  time  may  permit. 

iin  a  void 'a  ble  pre'vi  ous  ly  scis'sors 

dSx  ter'i  ty  ac'cu  rate  ly  m  con  sid'er  ate 

1.  Bradley  Headstone  and  Charley  Hexam  crossed 
the  bridge  and  made  along  the  shore  toward  Millbank. 
At  the  point  where  Church  Street  and  Smith  Square 
joined,  there  were  some  little  quiet  houses  in  a  row. 
At  one  of  these  they  stopped. 

The  boy  knocked  at  a  door,  and  the  door  promptly 
opened  with  a  spring  and  a  click,  and  disclosed  a  child  — 
a  dwarf,  a  girl  —  sitting  in  a  low,  old-fashioned  armchair 
which  had  a  kind  of  a  little  working  bench  before  it. 

"I  can't  get  up,"  said  the  child,  "because   my  back 


-^  loi  B<-  •./  i  V  I    »/  ,       \:  I 

is  bad  and  my  legs  are  queer.     But  I'iiit^e^pers6xi''.6li 
the  house.     What  did  you  want,  young  man?" 

"  I  wanted  to  see  my  sister." 

"  Many  young  men  have  sisters,"  returned  the  child. 
'^  Give  me  your  name,  young  man." 

2.  The  queer  little  figure  and  the  queer  little  face, 
w^ith  its  bright  gray  eyes,  were  so  sharp  that  the  sharp- 
ness of  manner  seemed  unavoidable  ;  as  if,  turned  out  of 
that  mould,  it  must  be  sharp. 

"  Hexam  is  my  name." 

'^  Ah,  indeed  ? "  said  the  person  of  the  house.  "  I 
thought  it  might  be.  Your  sister  will  be  in  in  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  I  am  very  fond  of  your  sister.  She 's 
my  particular  friend.     And  this  gentleman's  name  ?  " 

'^  Mr.  Headstone,  my  schoolmaster." 

"Take  a  seat.  And  would  you  please  to  shut  the 
street  door  first  ?     I  can't  very  well  do  it  myself." 

3.  They  complied  in  silence.  The  little  figure  went 
on  with  its  work  of  gluing  together  certain  pieces  of  card- 
board and  thin  wood,  previously  cut  into  various  shapes. 

The  scissors  and  knives  upon  the  bench  showed  that  the 
child  herself  had  cut  them.  The  bright  scraps  of  velvet 
and  silk  and  ribbon  also  strewn  upon  the  bench  showed 
that,  when  duly  stuffed,  she  was  to  cover  them  smartly. 

4.  The  dexterity  of  her  nimble  fingers  was  remark- 
able.    As  she  brought  two  thin  edges  accurately  together 


^  102  6*^ 


'^|pJLX.uillSiv/fA^^^^^  '■ 


JENNY    WREN    AT    HOME 


by  giving  them  a  little  bite,  she  would  glance  at  her 
visitors  out  of  the  corners  of  her  gray  eyes  with  a  look 
that  out  sharpened  all  her  other  sharpness. 

"  You  can't  tell  me  the  name  of  my  trade,  I  '11  be 
bound,"  she  said,  after  taking  several  of  these  observa- 
tions. 

"  You  make  pincushions,"  said  Charley. 

"  What  else  do  I  make  ?  " 

"  Penwipers,"  said  Bradley  Headstone. . 

"  Ha !  ha !  What  else  do  I  make  ?  You  're  a  school- 
master, but  you  can't  tell  me." 

5.  "You  do  something  with  straw,"  he  returned, 
pointing  to  a  corner  of  the  little  bench,  "but  I  don't 
know  what." 


-*»8  1  OS  9«^ 

"  "Well  done.  I  only  make  pincushions  and  penwipers 
to  use  up  my  waste.  But  my  straw  really  does  belong  to 
my  business.  Try  again.  What  do  I  make  with  my  straw?" 

"  Ladies'  bonnets  ?  " 

"  Fine  ladies'/'  said  the  person  of  the  house.  "  Dolls' 
—  I  'm  a  dolls'  dressmaker." 

"  I  hope  it 's  a  good  business  ?  " 

6.  The  person  of  the  house  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  shook  her  head. 

"  No.  Poorly  paid.  And  I  'm  often  so  pressed  for 
time.  I  had  a  doll  married  last  week  and  was  obliged 
to  work  all  night." 

They  looked  at  the  little  creature  with  a  wonder  that 
did  not  diminish,  and  the  schoolmaster  said,  "  I  'm  sorry 
your  fine  ladies  are  so  inconsiderate." 

"  It 's  the  way  with  them,"  said  the  person  of  the 
house,  shrugging  her  shoulders  again.  "  And  they  take 
no  care  of  their  clothes,  and  they  never  keep  to  the  same 
fashions  a  month.  I  work  for  a  doll  with  three  daugh- 
ters.    Bless  you,  she  's  enough  to  ruin  her  husband  ! " 

7.  She  gave  a  weird  little  laugh  here,  and  another 
look  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  always  as  busy  as  you  are  now  ?  " 

"Busier.     I'm  slack   just  now.      I   finished   a   large 

mourning  order  the  day  before  yesterday.     Doll  I  work 

for  lost  a  canary  bird." 


-•6  1048^ 

"Are  you  alone  all  day?"  asked  Bradley  Headstone. 
"  Don't  any  of  the  neighboring  children —  ?  " 

8.  "  Don't  talk  of  children  !  "  cried  the  person  of  the 
house  with  a  little  scream,  as  if  the  word  had  pricked 
her. 

"  I  can't  bear  children.  I  know  their  tricks  and  their 
manners.  Always  running  about  and  screeching,  always 
playing  and  fighting,  always  skip,  skip,  skipping  on  the 
pavement  and  chalking  it  for  their  games. 

"  And  that 's  not  all.  Ever  so  often  calling  names  in 
through  a  person's  keyhole  and  imitating  a  person's 
back  and  legs.  No,  no,  no !  No  children  for  me.  Give 
me  grown-ups." 

9.  It  was  difficult  to  guess  the  age  of  this  strange  crea- 
ture, for  her  poor  figure  furnished  no  clew  to  it,  and  her 
face  was  at  once  so  young  and  so  old.  Twelve,  or  at  the 
most  thirteen,  might  be  near  the  mark. 

"I  always  did  like  grown-ups,"  she  went  on,  "and 
always  kept  company  with  them.  So  sensible.  Sit  so 
quiet.     Don't  go  prancing  and  capering  about." 

She  listened  to  a  step  outside  that  caught  her  ear,  and 
there  was  a  soft  knock  at  the  door.  Pulling  at  a  handle 
within  her  reach,  she  said,  with  a  pleased  laugh,  "  Now, 
here  is  a  grown-up  that 's  my  particular  friend ! "  and 
Lizzie  Hexam  entered  the  room. 

"Charley!     You?'^ 


-»9  1 05  8«*- 

10.  Taking  her  brother  to  her  arms  in  the  old  way  — 
of  which  he  seemed  a  little  ashamed  —  she  saw  no  one 
else. 

"There,  there,  there!  All  right,  my  dear.  See! 
Here  's  Mr.  Headstone  come  with  me." 

Her  eyes  met  those  of  the  schoolmaster,  and  a  mur- 
mured word  of  salutation  passed  between  them.  .  .  . 
After  their  departure  Mr.  Eugene  Wrayburn  called. 

11.  He  fell  to  talking  playfully  to  Jenny  Wren.  "I 
think  of  setting  up  a  doll.  Miss  Jenny,"  he  said. 

"  You  had  better  not,"  replied  the  dressmaker. 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  are  sure  to  break  it.     All  you  children  do." 

"But  that  makes  it  good  for  trade,  you  know,  Miss 
Wren." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Miss  Wren  retorted ;  "  but 
you  had  better  by  half  set  up  a  penwiper  and  turn 
industrious  and  use  it." 

"If  we  all  set  to  work  as  soon  as  we  could  use  our 
hands  it  would  be  all  over  with  the  dolls'  dressmakers." 

"  There 's  something  in  that,"  replied  Miss  Wren. 
"  You  have  a  sort  of  an  idea  in  your  noddle  sometimes." 
Then  in  a  changed  tone,  "  Talking  of  ideas,  Lizzie,  I  won- 
der how  it  happens  that  when  I  am  work,  work,  working 
here  all  alone  in  the  summer  time  I  smell  flowers." 


"As  a  commonplace  individual,  I  should  say/'  sug- 
gested the  schoolmaster,  "  that  you  smell  flowers  because 
you  do  smell  flowers." 

12.  "No,  I  don't/'  said  the  little  creature,  resting  one 
arm  upon  the  elbow  of  her  chair,  resting  her  chin  upon 
that  hand,  and  looking  vacantly  before  her;  "this  is  not 
a  flowery  neighborhood.  It 's  anything  but  that.  And 
yet,  as  I  sit  at  work,  I  smell  miles  of  flowers.  I  smell 
roses  till  I  think  I  see  the  rose  leaves  lying  in  heaps, 
bushels,  upon  the  floor. 

"  I  smell  fallen  leaves  till  I  put  down  my  hand  —  so  — 
and  expect  to  make  them  rustle.  I  smell  the  white  and 
the  pink  May  in  the  hedges,  and  all  sorts  of  flowers  that 
I  never  was  among,  for  I  have  seen  very  few  flowers 
indeed  in  my  life." 

"Pleasant  fancies  to  have,  Jenny  dear!"  said  her 
friend. 

13.  "  So  I  think,  Lizzie,  when  they  come  to  me,  and 
the  birds  I  hear !  Oh  ! "  cried  the  little  creature,  holding 
out  her  hand  and  looking  upward,  "  how  they  sing !  " 

There  was  something  in  the  face  and  action  for  the 
moment  quite  inspired  and  beautiful.  Then  the  chin 
dropped  musingly  upon  the  hand  again. 

"  I  dare  say  my  birds  sing  better  than  other  birds  and 
my  flowers  smell  better  than  other  flowers ;  for  when  1 
was  a  little  child/'  in  a  tone  as  if  it  were  ages  ago,  "the 


-»8  107  8«* 

children  that  I  used  to  see  early  in  the  morning  were 
very  different  from  any  others  that  I  ever  saw.  They 
were  not  like  me  ;   they  were  never  in  pain. 

"  They  were  not  like  the  children  of  the  neighbors ; 
they  never  made  me  tremble  all  over  by  setting  up  shrill 
noises,  and  they  never  mocked  me.  Such  numbers  of 
them,  too !  All  in  white  dresses  and  with  something 
shining  on  the  borders  and  on  their  heads  that  I  have 
never  been  able  to  imitate  with  my  work,  though  I  know 
it  so  well. 

14.  "  They  used  to  come  down  in  long,  bright,  slanting 
rows,  and  say  all  together  :  '  Who  is  this  in  pain  ?  Who 
is  this  in  pain?'  When  I  told  them  who  I  was,  they 
answered,  '  Come  play  with  us  ! '  When  I  said,  '  I  never 
play!  I  can  t  play ! '  they  swept  about  me  and  took  me 
up  and  made  me  light. 

"  Then  it  was  all  delicious  ease  and  rest  till  they  laid 
me  down  and  said,  all  together :  '  Have  patience,  and  we 
will  come  again.' 

"  Whenever  they  came  back,  I  used  to  know  they 
were  coming  before  I  saw  the  long,  bright  rows  by  hear- 
ing them  ask,  all  together,  a  long  way  off :  '  Who  is  this 
in  pain  ?  Who  is  this  in  pain  ? '  And  I  used  to  cry  out : 
^  0  my  blessed  children,  it 's  poor  me.  Have  pity  on  me. 
Take  me  up  and  make  me  light.'  " 

Lizzie,   who   had  not   taken    off   her    bonnet,  rather 


^  108  9«- 

hurriedly  proposed   that  as  the  room  was  getting  dark 
they  should  go  out  into  the  air. 

They  went  out,  the  visitors  saying  good-night  to  the 
dolls'  dressmaker,  whom  they  left  leaning  back  in  her 
chair  with  her  arms  crossed,  singing  to  herself  in  a  sweet, 
thoughtful  little  voice. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  FLAG. 

By  victor  MAPES. 

pa  tri  5t'ic  a  maze'ment 

houVe  vard  en  thu'si  asm 

1.  I  DO  not  know  how  you  feel  about  the  American 
flag,  but  it  has  often  occurred  to  me  that  most  of  us  have 
very  little  feeling  about  it. 

I  do  not  mean  by  this  that  we  are  not  patriotic  —  that 
we  would  not  march  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth,  if  we  were 
called  upon  to  do  so,  as  quickly  as  the  Englishman,  the 
German,  or  anybody  else.  But  our  country  is  so  peaceful, 
and  we  see  so  many  flags  drooping  so  lazily  from  flagpoles 
on  the  tops  of  big  buildings,  or  carried  on  picnic  parades, 
or  stuck  in  the  collars  of  horses,  that  we  are  very  apt  to 
pass  by  a  flag  without  noticing  it. 


-^  1  d9  8<* 

If  it  does  chance  to  engage  our  attention,  we  remark, 
perhaps,  that  it  is  faded  or  bright,  large  or  small,  of  silk 
or  bunting,  or  something  of  the  sort,  and  that  is  as  much 
feeling  as  the  sight  of  it  ever  inspires. 

2.  At  any  rate  that  is  what  a  little  boy  I  know  thought 
about  it  when  he  went  abroad  with  me  last  May.  But 
two  little  adventures  this  boy  took  part  in,  some  time 
after  he  arrived  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  have 
changed  this  feeling  somewhat.  These  two  adventures 
that  Frank,  the  little  boy  I  speak  of,  had  in  Paris  were, 
perhaps,  worth  while  telling  about. 

When  the  Fourth  of  July  came,  we  had  been  in  Paris 
nearly  two  months,  and  during  that  time  I  think  we  had 
not  seen  a  single  American  flag. 

3.  On  the  morning  of  the  Fourth,  however,  we  walked 
out  on  the  boulevard,  and  a  number  of  flags  were  hanging 
out  from  the  American  shops.  They  looked  strange  to 
us,  and  the  idea  came  to  Frank,  for  the  first  time,  that 
the  United  States  was  one  of  a  great  many  nations  living 
next  to  one  another  in  this  world  —  that  it  was  his  own 
nation,  a  kind  of  big  family  to  which  he  belonged.  The 
Fourth  of  July  was  a  sort  of  a  big  family  birthday,  and 
the  flags  were  out  to  tell  the  Frenchmen  and  everybody 
not  to  forget  the  fact. 

4.  A  feeling  of  this  nature  came  over  Frank  that 
morning,  and  he  called  out  "  There  's  another ! "  every 


-»8  1108«^ 

time  a  new  flag  came  in  view.  He  stopped  two  or  three 
times  to  count  the  number  in  sight,  and  showed  in  various 
ways  that  he,  America,  and  the  American  flag  had  come 
to  a  new  relation. 

During  the  morning  Frank's  cousin  George,  a  boy  two 
or  three  years  older  than  he,  came  to  our  hotel,  and  they 
went  off  together  to  see  the  sights  and  have  a  good  time. 

When  Frank  returned  and  came  up  to  the  room  where 
I  was  writing,  I  noticed  a  small  American  flag  pin  stuck 
into  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

5.  "  George  had  two,"  he  said  in  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion, "  and  he  gave  me  this  one.  He 's  been  in  Paris  a  year 
now,  and  he  says  we  ought  to  wear  them  so  people  may 
know  that  we  are  Americans.  But  say.  Uncle  Jack, 
where  do  you  think  I  got  that  ?  "  He  opened  a  paper 
bundle  he  had  under  his  arm  and  unrolled  a  weather- 
beaten  American  flag. 

"  Where  ? "  asked  I,  supposing  it  had  come  from 
George's  house. 

"  We  took  it  off  Lafayette's  tomb." 

I  opened  my  eyes  in  astonishment,  while  he  went  on : 

6.  "  George  says  the  American  Consul  put  it  on  the 
tomb  last  Fourth  of  July  for  our  government,  because 
Lafayette  helped  us  in  the  Revolution. 

"  They  ought  to  put  on  a  new  flag  every  year,  George 
Bays,"  explained  Frank,  seeing  my  amazement, "  on  Fourth 


-»6  1 1 1  9^ 

of  July  morning,  but  the  American  Consul  is  a  new  man, 
George  thinks,  for  he  forgot  to  do  it.  So  we  bought 
a  new  flag  and  we  did  it.  We  went  to  a  store  on  the 
boulevard,  and  for  twenty  francs  bought  a  new  flag  just 
like  the  old  one.     George  and  I  each  paid  half. 

"  There  were  two  women  and  a  little  girl  at  the  tomb 
when  we  returned,  and  we  waited  till  they  went  away. 
Then  we  unrolled  the  new  flag  and  took  the  old  one  off 
the  tomb. 

7.  "  We  thought  we  ought  to  say  something  when  we 
put  the  new  flag  on,  but  we  did  n't  know  what  to  say. 
George  said  they  always  made  a  regular  speech,  thanking 
Lafayette  for  helping  us  in  the  Revolution,  but  we  thought 
it  did  n't  matter  much.  So  we  just  took*  off  our  hats 
when  we  spread  the  new  flag  on  the  grave,  and  then  we 
rolled  up  the  old  flag  and  came  away. 

"  We  drew  lots  for  it  afterward,  and  I  am  going  to 
take  it  home  with  me. 

"  Somebody  ought  to  have  done  it,  and  as  we  were  both 
American  boys,  it  was  all  right,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

Right  or  wrong,  the  flag  that  travelers  saw  on  Lafay- 
ette's tomb  that  year  as  a  mark  of  the  American  nation's 
respect  for  that  great  Frenchman  was  the  one  put  there 
by  two  boys.  And  the  flag  put  there  the  year  before, 
Frank  has  carefully  hung  on  the  wall  of  his  little  room 
in  America. 


-«  1  12  8«- 

8.  Ten  days  after  this  adventure  came  the  Fourteenth 
of  July,  —  the  great  day  on  which  the  French  people 
stormed  the  grim  old  Bastille  and  cried  :  "  Down  with 
the  tyranny  of  kings !  " 

It  is  much  the  same  sort  of  day  to  the  French  as  our 
Fourth  of  July  is  to  us,  only  they  show  a  great  deal  more 
enthusiasm.  The  little  French  boys  do  not  shoot  off  fire 
crackers  all  day  in  the  streets,  to  frighten  horses,  scorch 
their  fingers,  and  make  mothers  anxious. 

There  is  a  great  military  parade  reviewed  by-  the 
President,  there  are  bands  of  music  on  the  corners  and 
public  places  throughout  Paris ;  and  at  night,  while 
fireworks  are  being  set  off,  men,  women,  and  children 
throng  the  streets  and  dance  and  sing  till  daylight  is 
about  ready  to  share  the  fun. 

9.  The  morning  of  that  great  day  George  came  round 
to  the  hotel,  and  I  asked  the  two  boys  if  they  would  like 
to  go  after  lunch  to  see  the  great  military  parade,  where 
President  Carnot  was  going  to  have  some  thirty  thousand 
French  soldiers  march  by  his  stand  and  salute  him. 

George  thought  it  would  be  more  fun  to  take  a  carriage 
and  drive  about  Paris  to  see  all  the  people  celebrating. 
It  would  be  hot  and  crowded  at  the  review  and  we 
could  not  hope  to  see  President  Carnot,  so  Frank  and 
I  agreed  with  George. 

10.  Before  we  started  out,  Frank  suggested  that  we 


^  1  138^ 

should  buy  two  big  flags,  the  same  size,  one  American, 
red,  white,  and  blue,  and  the  other  French,  red,  white, 
and  blue,  and  take  them  with  us.  "  Don't  you  see,"  he 
explained,  "we  will  carry  the  American  flag  to  show  that 
we  are  Americans,  and  the  French  flag  will  show  that 
we  're  glad  they  are  celebrating  1 " 

So  they  bought  the  two  flags,  —  fine  large  ones,  —  and 
Frank  with  the  American  flag  sat  with  the  coachman  on 
the  box,  while  George  and  I  put  the  French  flag  between 
us,  to  fly  out  behind. 

11.  After  driving  about  from  place  to  place,  we  found 
ourselves  once  more  back  on  the  boulevards,  when  sud- 
denly Frank  gave  a  shout. 

"  Look!  "  he  called  out,  "there  come  some  soldiers ! " 

Yes,  there  were  soldiers  on  horseback  coming  towards 
us.  Then  far-away  shouts  reached  our  ears  from  the 
crowds  ahead,  where  the  soldiers  were. 

"  Look  at  the  pistols,"  cried  Frank  from  the  box. 
"  They  are  holding  them  right  up  in  the  air.  What  is 
that  for?" 

"They  are  a  bodyguard,"  George  said.  "It  must  be 
somebody." 

"  It  is  the  President,"  said  the  coachman,  as  the  soldiers 
came  toward  us  at  a  rapid  pace. 

12.  We  were  within  fifty  yards  of  them  now  and  could 
see  everything.      There  in  front  were  the  two  officers, 


-»8  1  148«- 

with  shining  breastplates  and  helmets,  each  with  a  cocked 
revolver  held  out  at  arm's  length. 

Behind  came  the  President's  carriage  drawn  by  four 
coal-black  horses,  then  two  more  officers  with  drawn 
pistols,  followed  by  a  troop  of  cavalry. 

On   they  came !      Our  coachman  stopped   his  horses. 


TEET 


^ 


li!a^^*Mi 


#>*' 


FRANK    SALUTES  THE    FRENCH    PRESIDENT 

The  people  were  shouting  and  cheering  on  all  sides, 
"  Le  President !  "     "  Carnot ! " 

He  was  almost  abreast  of  us  and  close  by  when  sud- 
denly I  noticed  he  was  looking  an  our  direction,  and 
all  eyes  were  turned  toward  our  carriage. 

It  was  the  American  flag ! 


-«  1158*- 

There  it  was  floating  proudly  aloft  in  the  hands  of  oui 
little  boy  in  the  front  seat. 

13.  When  Frank  saw  the  President  abreast  of  him 
and  everybody  looking  at  his  flag,  without  a  sign  of 
hesitation  he  stood  straight,  held  the  flag  as  high  as 
he  could,  and  dipped  a  salute  to  the  President  of  the 
French  Republic ! 

The  crowd  cheered  wildly.  President  Carnot  moved 
forward  in  his  seat,  lifted  his  hat,  and  bowed  low  to 
Frank  and  the  American  flag. 

And  then  in  a  second  he  had  passed. 

14.  This  flag,  I  think,  is  prized  by  Frank  even  more 
than  the  other,  for  whenever  he  takes  anybody  to  his 
room,  he  always  says  first,  "  This  is  the  flag  that  was  on 
Lafayette's  tomb";  and  then,  in  a  more  impressive  voice, 
"  That  is  the  one  President  Carnot  took  off  his  hat  to." 

But  these  two  flags  are  not  the  only  ones  that  are  dear 
to  him.  Every  flag  he  sees  on  the  street  he  realizes 
might  have  been  on  Lafayette's  tomb  or  saluted  by 
President  Carnot. 


■^  1168*- 

A    WELCOME    TO    LAFAYETTE. 

By  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

During  the  visit  of  Lafayette  the  corner-stone  of  the  monument 
was  laid  at  Bunker  Hill,  the  scene  of  one  of  the  first  and  most 
celebrated  battles  of  the  Eevolutionary  War,  fought  June  17, 
1775.  This  is  a  brief  extract  from  an  oration  delivered  by  Mr. 
Everett  at  Cambridge  in  1824. 

1.  With  the  present  year  will  be  completed  the  half- 
century  from  that  most  important  era  in  human  history, 
the  commencement  of  our  Eevolutionary  War. 

A  few  still  survive  among  us  to  reap  the  rich  fruits 
of  their  labors  and  suffering,  and  one  has  yielded  himself 
to  the  united  voice  of  a  people,  and  returned  in  his  age 
to  receive  the  gratitude  of  the  nation  to  whom  he  devoted 
his  youth. 

2.  It  is  recorded  on  the  pages  of  American  history 
that  when  this  friend  of  our  country  applied  to  our  com- 
missioners at  Paris,  in  1776,  for  a  passage  to  America, 
they  were  obliged, to  answer  him  that  they  possessed 
not  the  means  nor  the  credit  for  providing  a  single 
vessel  in  all  the  ports  of  France. 

"  Then,"  exclaimed  the  youthful  hero,  "  I  will  provide 
my  own " ;  and  it  is  a  literal  fact  that  when  all  America 
was  too  poor  to  offer  him  so  much  as  a  passage  to  our 


-<9  1179*- 

shores,  he  left,  in  his  tender  youth,  the  bosom  of  home, 
of  happiness,  of  wealth,  of  rank,  to  plunge  in  the  dust 
and  blood  of  our  struggle. 

3.  Welcome,  friend  of  our  fathers,  to  our  shores! 
Happy  are  our  eyes  that  behold  those  venerable  features. 
Enjoy  a  triumph  such  as  never  monarch  enjoyed,  —  the 
assurance  that  throughout  America  there  is  not  a  bosom 
which  does  not  beat  with  joy  and  gratitude  at  your  name. 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  our  shores  ;  and  whither- 
soever throughout  the  limits  of  the  continent  your  course 
shall  take  you,  the  ear  that  hears  you  shall  bless  you, 
the  eye  that  sees  you  shall  bear  witness  to  you,  and 
every  tongue  exclaim,  with  heartfelt  joy,  "  Welcome, 
welcome,  Lafayette ! " 


THE  NATIONAL  FLAG. 

By  CHARLES  SUMNER. 

Charles  »Sumner  was  one  of  our  most  prominent  American 
statesmen.  He  was  born,  in  Boston,  Mass.,  January,  1811,  was 
graduated  at  Harvard,  and  then  studied  and  practised  law. 

In  1845  he  delivered  the  Fourth  of  July  oration  at  Boston  with 
so  much  eloquence  and  force  that  he  gained  high  rank  as  an  orator. 
Five  years  later  he  was  elected  to  the  United  States  Senate,  and 
held  that  position  until  his  death,  in  1873. 

Although  there  were  many  who  disagreed  with  his  views,  they 
never  questioned   his   honor   and   integrity.     His   speeches   were 


-»8  1 18  9^ 

finished  and  scholarly,  and  always  impressed  his  audience  with 
his  power  and  sincerity.  He  was  a  great  and  good  man,  and 
gained  the  respect  of  the  whole  country. 


1.  There  is  the  national  flag!  He  must  be  cold 
indeed  who  can  look  upon  its  folds  rippling  in  the 
breeze  without  pride  of  country.  If  he  be  in  a  foreign 
land,  the  flag  is  companionship  and  country  itself  with 
all  its  endearments. 

Who,  as  he  sees  it,  can  think  of  a  state  merely? 
Whose  eyes,  once  fastened  upon  its  radiant  trophies,  can 
fail  to  recognize  the  image  of  the  whole  nation  ? 

It  has  been  called  a  floating  piece  of  poetry,  and  yet 
I  know  not  if  it  have  an  intrinsic  beauty  beyond  other 
ensigns.  Its  highest  beauty  is  in  what  it  symbolizes. 
It  is  because  it  represents  all  that  all  gaze  at  it  with 
delight  and  reverence. 

2.  It  is  a  piece  of  bunting  lifted  in  the  air,  but  it 


-49  1199*^ 

speaks  sublimely,  and  every  part  has  a  voice.  Its  stripes 
of  alternate  red  and  white  proclaim  the  original  union  of 
thirteen  states  to  maintain  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence. Its  stars  of  white  on  a  field  of  blue  proclaim  that 
union  of  states  constituting  our  national  constellation, 
which  receives  a  new  star  with  every  new  state. 

The  two  together  signify  union,  past  and  present. 
The  very  colors  have  a  language  which  was  officially 
recognized  by  our  fathers.  White  is  for  purity,  red  for 
valor,  blue  for  justice ;  and  all  together,  bunting,  stripes, 
stars,  and  colors  blazing  in  the  sky,  make  the  flag  of  our 
country — to  be  cherished  by  all  our  hearts,  to  be  upheld 
by  all  our  hands. 


Bright  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast, 
Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue  ; 
Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 
And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew  ! 
Strain  home  !     0  lithe  and  quivering  spars ! 
Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of  stars  ! 

N.  P.  Willis. 


^  120  Q^ 


"^p 

ALFRED  TENNYSON, 

mar'vSl  ous 

spir'it  ii  al 

m  c5r  riipt'i  ble 

lai^'re  site 

1.  Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  in  Somersby,  England, 
on  the  sixth  day  of  August,  1809.  His  father  was  the 
village  rector,  and  there,  in  the  white  rectory  house  among 
the  hills  and  beneath  leafy  elms,  came  the  tiny  babe  who 
was  destined  to  become  the  greatest  poet  of  his  age. 

His  mother  was  a  gentle  lady  with  a  lively  imagination, 
so  kind-hearted  that  the  bad  boys  of  the  village  used 
sometimes  to  beat  their  dogs  under  her  window  in  order 
to  be  bribed  to  leave  off. 

2.  There  were  twelve  children  in  the  Tennyson  family, 
and  they  lived  in  a  little  world  of  their  own.    The  seven 


boys  would  play  that  they  were  knights  defending  a 
castle  or  rescuing  maidens.  Sometimes  they  fought  mimic 
battles,  dividing  themselves  into  two  camps,  each  having 
a  willow  wand  set  up  in  its  midst  for  a  king.  Each 
party  tried  to  overthrow  the  other's  king  with  a  stone. 

The  love  of  beauty  was  very  strong  in  them,  and  they 
told  marvelous  tales  and  fancied  themselves  the  knights 
and  heroes  of  which  they  read. 

They  liked  to  write  about  their  play,  and  used  to  put 
the  histories  of  their  battles  under  the  potato  bowl  on  the 
dinner  table  so  that  their  father  might  read  them.  They 
were  a  very  happy  family,  and  the  poems  in  which 
Tennyson  refers  to  early  days  are  full  of  warmth  and 
tenderness. 

But  it  was  not  all  playtime.  The  children  were  taught 
at  home  and  in  the  village  school.  The  books  surround- 
ing them  in  the  rector's  library  and  the  pleasant  home 
instruction  awakened  an  early  fondness  for  learning. 

3.  Alfred  showed  thought  beyond  his  years  when 
very  young.  When  he  was  five  years  of  age,  as  the  wind 
swept  through  the  garden  of  the  rectory,  he  spread  out 
his  little  arms  and  was  blown  along  by  it,  crying  in  great 
glee,  "  I  hear  a  voice  that 's  speaking  in  the  wind,"  and 
the  voices  which  spoke  in  the  babbling  of  the  brook,  the 
sighing  of  the  pines,  and  the  murmur  of  the  waves  soon 
shaped  themselves  into  verse.  v 


-»8   122  8^ 

Alfred  always  loved  the  sea.     He  heard  many  voices  in 

,  its  varying  sounds,  and  the  music  of  the  restless  waves 

awakened  an  answering  echo  in  the  heart  of  the  young 

poet.     He  once  ran  bareheaded  to  the  shore  to  listen  to 

the  moaning  music  of  the  sea. 

4.  Charles  Tennyson,  next  older  than  Alfred,  was  his 
constant  companion.  He,  too,  had  poetical  tastes,  and 
wrote  throughout  his  life;  but  his  genius  was  less  than 
his  brother's.  The  two  boys  were  sent  to  the  Louth 
Grammar  School  for  a  short  time,  but  returned  to 
Somersby  and  attended  a  school  called  "  Cadney's." 
During  their  course  there  they  wrote  verses. 

In  1827  they  carried  their  work  to  a  publisher,  who 
gave  them  twenty  pounds  for  it  and  published  it  under 
the  title  of  "  Poems  by  Two  Brothers."  The  critics  paid 
little  attention  to  this  work,  and  its  sale  was  confined  to 
the  family  friends.  The  world  little  dreamed  that  a  great 
poet  was  springing  up  in  its  midst. 

5.  The  following  year  Charles  and  Alfred  went  to 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Their  older  brother  had 
spent  two  years  there,  and  had  taken  the  college  prize 
for  the  Greek  poem.  This  life  was  a  great  change  from 
the  sleepy  village  of  Somersby,  and  the  influence  of  the 
strong,  thoughtful  minds  gathered  there  was  of  great 
benefit  to  Tennyson. 

At  that  time  there  were  a  number  of  young  men  at 


-»9  123  9«- 


TENNYSON    IN    HIS    LIBRARY 


Trinity  who'had  unusual  talent.  The  Tennyson  boys 
found  friends  of  their .  own  age  who  had  the  same  tastes, 
and  they  used  to  meet  and  tell  stories  and  talk  and  plan 
for  the  future.  Those  college  days  were  full  of  delight 
and  profit. 

6.  It  was  here  that  Alfred  Tennyson  met  Arthur  Hal- 
lam,  a  young  man  of  rare  sweetness  of  character,  who 
gave  promise  of  great  genius.  Hallam  and  Tennyson 
were  soon  drawn  to  each  other  in  a  friendship  closer  than 
that  of  the  two  brothers. 

Both  young  men  wrote,  and  Tennyson  afterward  said, 
"  He  still  outstripped  me  in  the  race." 


-»9  124  8«- 

In  1829  Tennyson  gained  the  Chancellor's  gold  medal 
for  a  poem  on  Timbuctoo.  This  poem  received  praise 
from  the  critics,  who  said  that  it  would  have  done  honor 
to  any  man  that  ever  wrote.  In  1830  Tennyson  published 
a  little  book  of  verses,  which  was  most  favorably  received 
by  some  critics  and  ridiculed  by  others. 

A  great  sorrow  was  hanging  over  the  young  poet. 
Arthur  Hallam,  who  became  dearer  with  every  passing 
year,  died  suddenly  while  at  Vienna. 

"  God's  finger  touched  him,  and  he  slept." 

7.  The  loss  of  this  very  dear  friend  stirred  the  young 
poet's  soul  to  its  inmost  depths  and  turned  his  thoughts 
to  the  mysteries  of  life  and  death.  For  seventeen  years 
he  secretly  relieved  the  burden  of  his  grieving  heart  in  a 
memorial  poem ;  but  his  cry  of  sorrow  and  despair  grew 
more  confident  in  the  later  years,  and  the  closing  verses 
expressed  the  confidence  that  the  God  of  love  made  life 
and  death  and  is  King  of  both. 

Meanwhile  he  was  writing  other  poems,  and  his  work 
was  becoming  better  known.  The  volume  published  in 
1842  took  the  world  by  storm.  These  later  poems  showed 
a  rare  skill  in  poetic  expression  and  melody.  They  were 
full  of  pictures  of  English  scenery,  —  the  castles  and 
baronial  halls,  the  homesteads  and  well-kept  gardens, 
the  glorious  summer  woods  and  the  ever-changing  sea. 


-»6  1 25  8«- 

But  beyond  all  these  pictures  and  delicate  fancies  were 
spiritual  feeling,  heart  throbs  of  emotion,  and  purity  of 
thought. 

Charles  Dickens  was.  one  of  the  first  to  recognize 
Tennyson's  genius.  He  was  always  a  great  admirer  of 
the  poet,  and  writes,  "  Tennyson  I  have  been  reading 
again  and  again.     What  a  great  creature  he  is! " 

8.  In  1850  Tennyson  gave  to  the  world  "  In  Memo- 
riam,"  his  lament  for  Arthur  Hallam.  These  verses 
placed  him  at  the  head  of  all  poets  of  his  time,  and  he 
was  made  poet  laureate.  That  was  also  the  year  of  his 
marriage  to  Emily  Sellwood.  They  had  long  been  en- 
gaged, and  it  was  her  faithful  love  that  had  brought 
gladness  into  his  life. 

Two  sons,  Hallam  and  Lionel,  were  born  at  the  beautiful 
home  at  Farringford.  The  house  there  is  delightfully 
situated.  Its  park,  grove,  and  pastures  are  fresh  and 
green^  and  stately  trees  grow  all  about  the  house. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  beauty  and  comfort  lived 
Tennyson,  grand  and  noble,  but  always  sad  and  gloomy. 

He  lived  a  very  quiet  life,  spending  his  time  in  writ- 
ing. His  pen  was  never  idle,  and  his  last  poems  were  as 
beautiful  and  full  of  melody  as  any  that  he  ever  wrote. 

9.  His  most  famous  poems  are,  "Maud,"  '^The 
Princess,"  and  "  Idyls  of  the  King,"  although  some  of 
his  shorter  poems  sing  themselves  into  many  hearts. 


^  126  6*^ 

His  poems  are  high  and  noble  and  full  of  truth  as  well 
as  beautiful  visions.  No  blot,  no  stain  mars  their  beauty. 
His  verse  is  the  most  faultless  in  our  language,  both  as 
regards  the  music  of  its  flow  and  the  art  displayed  in  the 
choice  of  words.  As  a  word-painter  no  modern  poet  has 
equaled  him. 

His  language,  although  consisting  for  the  most  part  of 
strong  and  pithy  Saxon  words,  is  yet  the  very  perfection 
of  all  that  is  elegant  and  musical  in  the  art  of  versifica- 
tion. 

The  great  Poet's  faith  grew  brighter  and  more  hopeful 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life,  and  when  he  died  in 
♦1892  and  was  laid  with  kings  and  queens  in  Westminster 
Abbey  his  own  words  came  to  many  a  sorrowing  heart : 

"  Come  away ;  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ;  ' 

But  in  a  city  glorious,  — 
A  great  and  distant  city,  —  have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us  I '' 


-•8  127  B** 


SIR   GALAHAD. 

By  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Sir  Galahad  was  a  knight  who  was  seeking  for  the  Holy  Grail, 
—  the  cup  from  which  Christ  drank  at  the  Last  Supper. 

A  knight  who  undertook  this  pilgrimage  must  be  pure  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splintered  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel ; 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne, 

Through  dreaming  towns  I  go. 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 


49  128  8^ 

The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and  mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail — 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  through  the  mountain -walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
"  0  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God ! 

Ride  on !   the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale 
All-armed  I  ride,  what  e'er  betide, 

Untn  I  find  the  Holy  Grail. 


-«  129  8«- 

LITTLE   ROSALIE. 

(Abridged.) 

By  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 

Part  I. 

Mrs.  Spofford  was  born  at  Calais,  Me.,  but  she  has  spent  the 
greater  part  of  her  life  in  the  old  town  of  Newburyport,  Mass. 
She  now  lives  near  this  quaint  city,  in  a  delightful  home,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Merrimac  River. 

She  began  writing  when  quite  young,  and  her  story  ^'In  a 
Cellar,"  which  appeared  in  one  of  the  first  numbers  of  the  "  Atlantic 
Monthly,"  was  greatly  admired.  Her  writings  show  a  wide  range 
of  reading  and  insight  into  character. 

Her  magazine  stories  are  especially  fine,  and  are  filled'  with 
music,  beauty,  and  color. 

matinee'  c^l  cftla'tions 

choc'6  lates  cSn'fi  deiiQ  eg 

1.  It  was  a  little  "play-acting  girl/'  as  the  children's 
nurse  called  her.  Her  name^  on  the  advertising  bills 
posted  up  at  every  street  corner,  was  "  Little  Rosalie  "; 
and  the  great  delight  of  the  children  was  to  be  allowed 
to  go  to  a  matinee  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  when  they 
could  hear  and  see  her. 

Sometimes  Little  Rosalie  was  one  character  in  Ijie 
play  and  sometimes  she  was  another.  Once  she  was  a 
moonlight  fairy  in  a  little  white  silk  gown  whose  long 


folds  fell  about  her  feet;  her  soft  hair  was  loose  on  her 
shoulders,  a  star  gleamed  on  her  forehead/and  another 
star  tipped  the  lily's  stem  she  held  for  a  wand. 

With  her  eyes  uplifted  and  a  white  light  on  her  face, 
Rosalie  sang,  and  the  children  thought  a  little  angel  from 
heaven  would  sing  and  look  in  just  that  way. 

2.  And  when,  in  another  scene,  she  came  dancing 
on  in  short,  gauzy  skirts,  with  two  butterfly  wings  of 
peacock  feathers  upon  her  shoulders,  and,  springing  upon 
a  cloud,  went  sailing  up  out  of  sight  as  the  play  ended 
with  soft  music,  they  always  found  it  difficult  thoroughly 
to  believe  that  she  was  not  a  fairy  indeed. 

"  Going  to  see  Little  Rosalie,"  said  Tom,  "  is  n't  like 
going  to  the  theater  generally.     It 's  —  " 

"  It 's  just  because  we  love  her  so,"  said  Bessy. 

"  And  wish  to  see  her,"  added  Johnny. 

"And  I  really  think  she  knows  us  now,"  said  Maidie. 
"  I  should  have  liked  so  much  to  throw  her  my  bimch  of 
violets,  if  I  had  dared,  the  very  last  time  we  were  there." 

3.  "  Mamma,"  said  Kitten,  "  is  she  weally  alive,  or  do 
they  only  wind  her  up  and  make  her  go?" 

"  I  don't  believe  she 's  alive  just  as  we  are,"  said 
Fanny.     "  She  has  those  lovely  wings,  you  know." 

"  She  does  n't  have  them  all  the  time,"  said  Joe ;  "  she 
doesn't  have  them  when  she's  kneeling  by  her  dying 
mother  or  selling  the  things  in  the  street." 


-»8  131  8«- 

"Oh,  then,"    said    Bessy,    "she's    acting!      And  the 
wings  are  probably  folded  up  under  her  ragged  gown." 
"  But  I  should  think  they  'd  show  just  a  little  bit." 
"  Well,  they  don't.      Oh,  should  n't  you  like  to  know 
her,  Maidie,  and  talk  with  her  once?" 

4.  "I  am  acquainted  with  her,"  said  their  mother. 

"  You,  mamma,  you  ?  "  came  a  chorus.  "  0  mamma, 
you  can't  mean  so !  How  did  it  happen  ?  Tell  us  all 
about  it,  please !  " 

"  Is  she  a  truly  person  ?  "  asked  Kitten. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  '  truly '  person,"  answered  their  mother. 
"She  lives  on  a  street  around  the  corner  a  little  way 
from  the  theater.  She  has  a  mother,  —  a  very  sick 
mother,  —  and  an  old  grandmother  and  a  number  of 
brothers  and  sisters.     And  she  takes  care  of  all  of  them." 

"  Takes  care  ?  "  said  Maidie,  drawing  her  puzzled  brows 
together. 

5.  "  Yes,  actually  takes  care^  In  the  first  place,  there  is 
no  money  for  the  family  but  that  which  she  herself  earns. 
And  more  than  that.  This  lovely  little  fairy  creature 
who  seems  to  you  a  being  of  wings  and  colors,  of  light, 
music,  and  grace,  rises  in  the  morning  and  makes  the 
fire  and  dresses  the  children, — they  are  all  younger  than 
she  herself. 

"  Then  she  prepares  the  breakfast  and  makes  her  mother 
comfortable,  helps  her  poor  old  grandmother,  and  arranges 


-»6  132  8«- 


the  rooms.  Some  of  the  younger  ones  help  her  in  that. 
And  then  she  goes  to  rehearsal;  that  is,  to  the  empty 
theater,  where  they  practice  portions  of  the  evening  work, 
with  nobody  to  look  on  or  applaud. 


LITTLE    ROSALIE    AT    HOME 


6.  "  Well,  then,  rehearsal  over,"  resumed  their  mother, 
with  a  smile,  "  our  Little  Rosalie  goes  to  market,  and 
comes  home,  gets  dinner,  and  clears  it  away.  And  if 
she  has  a  new  part  to  learn,  she  sits'  do^^  to  study  it. 
She  has  to  practice  her  dances  sometimes  for  hours,  and 
her  songs,  too.  Oh,  she  works  every  day  for  many 
hours  harder  than  you  ever  worked  any  hour  in  your 
lives. 

"When  the  play  is  over  she  comes  out  of  the  stage 


-^  133  8«- 

door  into  the  night.  It  is  often  snowy  and  slippery,  or 
dark  and  muddy  from  a  heavy  rain,  with  not  a  star  to  be 
seen.  Sometimes  she  has  a  little  supper  with  her  grand- 
mother before  she  creeps  into  bed,  tired  out ;  but  often 
she  goes  to  bed  hungry." 

7.  "  0  mamma,"  cried  Maidie,  with  tears  in  her  sweet 
eyes,  "  I  think  it  is  so  cruel.  If  she  could  only  come  and 
live  with  us  !  " 

"And  what  would  become  then  of  her  mother  and 
grandmother,  of  her  sisters  and  brothers?  They  have 
nobody  but  Rosalie  to  do  anything  for  them,  and  would 
have  to  go  to  the  almshouse  or  die  of  starvation  if  it 
were  not  for  her  earnings." 

"Oh,  I  forgot!" 

"  Papa  could  take  care  of  them !  "  exclaimed  Johnny. 

"There  are  people  worse  off  than  these,"  resumed 
mamma ;  "  people  who  have  n't  even  any  Rosalie  to  earn 
money  for  them.  And  such  people  need  all  the  time  and 
money  that  papa  and  I  have  to  spare." 

8.  "But  it  all  seems  so  strange,"  said  Fanny,  "that  I 
can't  get  quite  used  to  it.  She  lives  around  the  corner 
there,  in  some  rooms,  and  cooks  and  sweeps  and  sews, 
and  has  a  mother  and  brothers  and  sisters  as  we  do  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  I  suppose  her  mother's  heart  aches  to  have 
poor  little  Rosalie  doing  so  much;  no  doubt  she  often 
grieves  over  it.     All  the  children  look  upon  Rosalie  as 


-^  1 34-  8«* 

the  one  who  gives  them  everything  they  have,  as  their 
guardian  angel. 

"  When  you  saw  her  in  that  singing-play  hovering  over 
the  children  asleep  in  the  wood,  with  the  great  rosy 
wings  arching  up  above  her  head  and  pointing  down 
below  her  feet,  you  did  n't  dream  that  she  really  was  a 
guardian  angel  to  so  many,  did  you  ?" 

9.  "  0  mamma,"  cried  Maidie,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"  and  I  am  of  no  use  at  all !  Can't  we  go  and  see  her  at 
her  real  home,  mamma,  or  have  her  come  to  see  us  ?  "  she 
added,  wistfully. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  would  do  her  no  good,  my  dear.  It 
is  no  kindness  to  make  her  discontented  with  her  own 
home.     And  ours  is  very  different." 

"  We  all  wish  Rosalie  to  like  us,"  said  Maidie. 

"  Rosalie 's  too  busy  for  that  sort  of  thing ! "  said  Tom, 
with  great  contempt. 

"I  don't 4now  that  she  is,"  said  Maidie.  "Once — I — 
I  never  told  anybody  —  but  once  when  she  was  so  very 
near  our  box,  you  kno^,  I  really  did  throw  her  a  little 
lace  bag  full  of  chocolates  —  those  lovely  chocolates  that 
Uncle  John  gives  us.  And  she  caught  it  and  looked  over 
and  laughed,  and  actually  slipped  one  into  her  mouth  —  " 

10.  "Well,"  interrupted  Tom,  looking  up  from  the 
heavy  calculations  that  he  had  been  making,  "  we  can't 
go  next  Saturday  —  unless  Aunt  Lydia  '  chips  in.*  "     And, 


-^  1 35  8«- 

to  everybody's  amazement,  Aunt  Lydia  did  "chip  in"  a 
bright  two-dollar-and-a-half  gold  piece  on  the  spot. 

That  night,  in  their  little  beds  in  the  big  bedroom, 
most  of  the  children,  as  usual,  could  hardly  close  their 
eyes  for  joy  over  the  expected  outing. 

"  Say,  Maidie,  are  you  asleep  ?  "  whispered  Bessy. 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  Maidie.  "  How  do  you 
suppose  I  can  sleep  when  I  'm  going  over  in  my  mind 
the  music  that  Rosalie  is  going  to  sing  and  dance  to  next 
Saturday  ?  And  —  0  Bessy,  how  beautiful  it  is  for  any- 
body to  do  all  the  good  that  Rosalie  does  in  the  world ! 
Oh,  if  I  could  only  be  of  use  to  people  —  '* 

11.  "  Oh,  you  are,  Maidie  dear,  you  are  of  the  greatest 
use  to  me !  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without 
you!"  exclaimed  her  little  bedfellow,  clasping  Maidie  in 
her  arms  and  able  to  speak  her  heart  fully  because  it 
was  dark.  "  You  see  to  my  work,  and  you  make  up  our 
quarrels,  and  you  get  mamma  to  let  us  do  tjjings,  and  — 
and—" 

"  But,  you  see,  if  I  died,  —  to-n\prrow,  say, — you  would 
all  get  along  as  well  without  me  in  a  little  while.  I  'm 
not  really  necessary  to  anybody.  And  she  is  really  neces- 
sary just  to  keep  ever  so  many  people  alive,  and  to  bring 
them  up  and  help  them  on  in  the  world. 

"  And,  then,  think  to  how  many  people  she  gives  pleas- 
ure; and  how  many  children  just  count  the  days,  the  way 


-^  136  8«- 

we  do,  before  they  go  to  see  '  Little  Rosalie.'     Oh,  if  I 
could  but  be  as  useful  in  the  world  as  she  is  —  " 

And  there  Maidie  stopped  her  confidences,  for  the 
faintly  murmured  assents  showed  that  Bessy  would  soon 
be  sound  asleep  in  spite  of  herself. 


LITTLE  ROSALIE. 

Part  XL 


6r'€hes  tra  suf  fi'cient 

(sh)-" 

pir  qu  Stating  ad'mi  ra  ble 

1.  What  a  merry  party  it  was  that  set  out  for  the 
"  Old  Prospero  "  that  frosty  Saturday  afternoon.  Some- 
thing detained  the  mother  at  home ;  but  Aunt  Nan  went 
in  her  place,  and  there  was  Nurse  and  Aunt  Lydia  and 
—  the  door-keeper  laughed  to  see  the  rest  of  them ;  he 
did  n't  pretend  to  count  them,  and  so  why  should  I  ? 

Maidie  laughed,  though,  —  she  could  n't  help  it,  — 
when  Aunt  Lydia,  after  settling  herself,  took  a  phial  of 
water  from  her  muff. 

"  There ! "  said  Aunt  Lydia.  "  I  never  go  to  the  theater 
without  it.  For,  you  know,  if  there  should  be  a  fire  and 
one  were  in  danger  of  suffocating  from  the  smoke,  only 
let  the  handkerchief  be  wet  in  cold  water  and  held  over 


-»9  137  8«- 

the  mouth  and  nose  and  one  can  breathe  through  that 
and  keep  alive  a  great  while  longer." 

2.  "Nonsense,  Lydia!"  said  Aunt  Nan.  "What  do 
you  want  to  frighten  the  children  for  ? " 

But  as  Maidie  heard  Aunt  Lydia  her  eyes  grew  bigger 
and  bigger,  so  big  that  she  could  see  only  the  daily 
danger  in  which  Little  Rosalie  lived.  But  after  awhile, 
and  when  Little  Rosalie  had  come  on  the  scene,  Maidie 
forgot  that  trouble  in  her  present  delight. 

She  was  rapt  in  seeing  a  huge  blossom  open  and  let 
Rosalie  out,  to  the  sound  of  soft  music.  She  leaned  far 
from  the  box  in  her  forgetful  gazing;  and  soon  it  seemed 
as  though  Rosalie,  whirling  very  near,  gave  them  a  smile  of 
recognition,  and  then  none  of  the  children  had  either  eyes 
or  thoughts  for  anything  but  this  floating,  flashing  sylph. 

At  that  moment  a  child  down  in  the  audience  cried 
about  something  and  diverted  from  the  stage  the  glances 
of  the  audience, — the  glances  of  all  but  Maidie.  In  that 
brief  moment  her  eye  beheld  a  dreadful  sight. 

Some  one  on  the  stage,  however,  had  seen  it,  and  the 
next  instant  down  rolled  the  drop  scene  and  hid  the  stage 
from  view. 

3.  But  not  a  moment  too  soon.  For  a  spark  had  shot 
out  and  one  little  flame  had  sprung  up  and  another  had 
followed  it,  racing  and  chasing  upwards  till  a  hundred 
tiny  tongues  of   fire  were  flying   up  the  inner   drapery 


-*8  138  8**- 

and  far  aloft.  At  the  same  instant  some  one  in  the  back 
of  the  audience  shouted  "  Fire  !  " 

It  is  a  terrible  sound  in  a  crowded  building.  It  made 
Aunt  Lydia's  heart  stop  beating  for  a  second,  and  then 
she  began  to  cry,  in  spite  of  Aunt  Nan's  calm  voice,  and 
to  huddle  the  children  together  to  rush  for  the  door. 

But  it  came  upon  Maidie  in  that  moment  that  if  every- 
body rushed  to  the  door  at  once  nobody  could  get  there. 
Those  in  front  would  be  crowded  and  knocked  down 
by  others  piling  upon  them,  and  all  buried  under  one 
another,  stifled  and  killed,  —  so  that  fire  itself  could  do 
no  more. 

Oh,  why  was  there  nobody  to  prevent  it?  If  papa 
were  but  there !  Oh,  thank  Heaven,  thank  Heaven,  he 
was  not,  —  if  there  was  no  escape !    Could  nobody  hinder  ? 

4.  This  was  all  realized  in  two  breaths.  And  in  a  third 
breath  the  drop  scene  was  pulled  aside  a  trifle,  some  of 
the  orchestra  took  up  the  music  that  had  stopped  for 
only  a  few  beats,  and  out  bounded  Little  Rosalie  with  her 
long  scarf  and  basket,  spinning  and  pirouetting  halfway 
across  the  stage,  and  pausing  in  the  middle  of  the 
prettiest  attitude  of  the  "  Great  Bonbon  Act." 

Out  of  the  charming  basket  on  her  arm  she  caught  and 
whirled  hundreds  of  bonbons  as  far  as  her  hand  could 
throw  them  among  the  babies  in  the  audience. 

The  thought  rushed  into  Maidie' s  mind  that  the  stage 


-»8  139  8«- 

people  were  afraid  of  the  panic  and  the  crush,  and  so  had 
sent  Little  Rosalie  out  with  the  bonbons  to  dance  as  if 
nothing  were  the  matter,  hoping  thus  to  prevent  the 
sudden  attempt  of  so  many  to  get  out  at  once. 

5.  For  Maidie  herself  had  seen  the  fire.  And  she  knew 
it  was  actually  in  there,  climbing  higher  and  higher ;  and 
she  could  hear  from  where  she  was  the  breathless  move- 
ments of  those  behind  the  curtain  who  were  trying  to 
smother  it. 

But  something  else  rushed  over  Maidie,  too.  It  was 
that  if  Little  Rosalie  stayed  there  another  moment  she 
would  herself  be  burned  alive,  and  then  what  would 
become  of  the  mother  and  the  grandmother  and  the 
twins,  who  had  nobody  but  Rosalie  in  the  whole  wide 
world  ? 

And  before  Maidie  fairly  knew  what  she  was  doing 
she  sprang  from  the  box  —  it  was  but  a  single  step  — 
and  had  run  across  the  stage  before  all  the  people  and 
had  clasped  Little  Rosalie,  crying  quickly  and  softly,  — 

"  Oh,  run,  run.  Little  Rosalie,  run !  Save  yourself ! 
For  I  really  saw  the  fire!  And,"  as  Rosalie  did  not 
run,  "what  will  they  do  at  home  without  you  if  you 
are  killed  here  ?  And  there  are  so  many  of  us  at  home 
that  nobody  will  miss  me  very  much !  I  will  stay  instead 
of  you  ! " 

6.  Poor  Maidie  1     As  if  her  staying  would  have  been 


-»e  140  8«- 

of  the  least  use !  But  she  never  thought  of  that.  She 
only  thought  that  if  some  child  must  stay  there  it  would 
better  be  she  than  Rosalie.  And  even  while  she  pleaded 
up  went  the  great  drop  scene,  rolling  to  the  top,  and  out 
flocked  all  the  players  of  the  scene. 

And  then  a  group  of  the  strangest  looking  people  were 
caressing  Maidie,  and  little  Rosalie  herself  was  hanging 
on  her  neck  one  moment,  and  somebody  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  round  by  some  back  way  to  the  box 
again. 

Aunt  Lydia  was  just  resuming  her  seat,  but  was  still 
quite  determined  to  go  out  and  take  the  children  with 
her.  The  children  were  quite  as  determined  not  to  go. 
And,  indeed,  their  pleadings  finally  carried  the  day. 

7.  But  that  night  Maidie's  father  came  into  the  room 
where  she  lay  in  her  little  bed  much  too  excited  to  sleep. 
"It  was  one  of  the  bravest  things  I  ever  heard  of, — 
Little  Rosalie's  act,"  said  he.  "Such  a  child  as  that 
must  not  be  wasted.  And  a  subscription  is  to  be  taken 
up  that  will  bring  a  sufficient  sum  to  complete  her 
education  in  whatever  way  is  thought  best." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  so,  papa! "  came  a  chorus  from 
all  the  beds.  "  Oh,  how  glad  I  am !  And  to  take  care 
of  all  her  folks  at  home,  too,  papa  ?" 

"  But  as  for  you,  my  little  darling,"  continued  her 
father  to   Maidie,  "how  could  you  possibly  think  you 


-^  141  8«- 

were  of  so  little  use  at  home  as  to  be  willing  to  break 
our  hearts  by  risking  the  loss  of  your  life  ?  What  if  I 
had  come  home  to-night  and  found  no  Maidie  to  meet 
me?" 

8.  And  Maidie  started  up  and  threw  her  arms  about 
her  father,  touched  to  the  heart  by  her  sudden  feeling 
of  what  his  grief  might  have  been.  "  I  want  you  never 
to  forget,  little  daughter,"  he  went  on,  "that  you  are  of 
great  and  important  use  in  the  family.  Are  you  not  my 
little  comforter  ? 

"  How  are  all  these  children  to  grow  up  without  the 
example  and  the  care  of  their  eldest  sister  ?  Our  duties 
all  begin  at  home.  Heroic  actions  are  great  and  admi- 
rable.    But  there  are  other  actions  just  as  admirable. 

"Among  these  are  the  daily  acts  of  duty  done,  with 
which  you  make  life  pleasant  and  easy  for  your  mother 
and  me,  for  Tom,  for  Kitten,  and  for  all  of  us.  When 
I  remember  that  I  never  saw  my  Maidie  out  of  temper 
in  my  life  —  " 

9.  "Nor  heard  her  speak  rudely  to  any  one,"  inter- 
rupted the  listening  Bessy. 

"Nor  knew  of  her  telling  anything  but  the  truth," 
cried  Tom  from  the  other  room. 

"  Nor  heard  her  say  '  I  can't '  when  you  ask  her  to  tie 
your  ribbons  or  to  do  your  sum  or  to  find  your  needle," 
added  Fanny. 


-»6  142  Qt- 

•'Nor  knew  her  to  do  anything  but  to  try  to  make 
everybody  about  her  happy  and  keep  her  own  sweet 
soul  white  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven,"  continued  her  father. 
"  When  I  remember  this  of  Maidie,  I  think  all  this  daily 
service  is  of  as  much  worth  as  the  one  heroic  deed  that 
risks  life  to  save  the  lives  of  others." 


DOWN  TO   SLEEP. 

By  HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON. 

November  woods  are  bare  and  still ; 

November  days  are  clear  and  bright; 
Each  noon  burns  up  the  morning  chill; 

The  morning  snow  is  gone  by  night ; 

Each  day  my  steps  grow  slow,  grow  light, 
As  through  the  woods  I  reverent  creep, 
Watching  all  things  lie  '^  down  to  sleep." 

I  never  knew  before  what  beds, 

Fragrant  to  smell,  and  soft  to  touch. 

The  forest  sifts  and  shapes  and  spreads; 
I  never  knew  before  how  much 
Of  human  sounds  there  is  in  such 

Low  tones  as  through  the  forest  sweep 

When  all  wild  things  lie  "  down  to  sleep.'' 


-48  143  8^ 

Each  day  I  find  new  coverlids 

Tucked  in  and  more  sweet  eyes  shut  tight; 
Sometimes  the  viewless  mother  bids 

Her  ferns  kneel  down,  full  in  my  sight ; 

I  hear  their  chorus  of  "  good-night." 
And  half  I  smile,  and  half  I  weep, 
Listening  while  they  lie  "  down  to  sleep." 

November  woods  are  bare  and  still; 
November  days  are  bright  and  good ; 

Life's  noon  burns  up  life's  morning  chill ; 
Life's  night  rests  feet  which  long  have  stood 
Some  warm,  soft  bed,  in  field  or  wood, 

The  mother  will  not  fail  to  keep. 

Where  we  can  lay  us  "  down  to  sleep." 


-h6  144- 8**- 

THE     SHIPWRECK. 

By    CHARLES    DICKENS. 
From  "  David  Copperfi eld." 

This  is  a  selection  from  Chapter  LY  of  "David  Copperfield," 
Dickens'  masterpiece.  This  chapter  contains  the  famous  descrip- 
tion of  a  great  storm  at  Yarmouth.  Ham  Peggotty,  one  of  the 
noblest  characters  in  Dickens,  attempts  to  reach  the  wreck  and 
loses  his  life.  Other  parts  of  this  chapter  should  be  read  to  the 
pupil  in  connection  with  this  brief  extract. 

ag  1  taction  m'fi  nit6  ly 

un'du  lat  ing  m  ter'mi  na  ble 

tu  mul'tu  ous  ly  m  con  qeiv'a,  ble 

ex'igency  com  inu  ni  ca'tion  . 

pro  di'g^ous  an  tiQ^i  pa  tive 

1.  I  PUT  up  at  an  old  inn  at  Yarmouth  and  went  down 
to  look  at  the  sea,  staggering  along  the  street  which  was 
strewn  with  sand  and  seaweed  and  with  flying  blotches 
of  sea  foam,  afraid  of  falling  slates  and  tiles  and  holding 
by  people  I  met  at  angry  corners. 

Coming  near  the  beach,  I  saw,  not  only  the  boatmen, 
but  half  the  people  of  the  town  lurking  behind  buildings; 
some  now  and  then  braving  the  fury  of  the  storm  to  look 
away  to  sea,  and  blown  sheer  out  of  their  course  in 
trying  to  get  zigzag  back. 


-»6  145  8<- 

Joining  these  groups,  I  found  bewailing  women  whose 
husbands  were  away  in  herring  or  oyster  boats,  which 
there  was  too  much  reason  to  think  might  have  f  ound^ed 
before  they  could  run  in  anywhere  for  safety. 

2.  Grizzled  old  sailors  were  among  the  people,  shaking 
their  heads  as  they  looked  from  water  to  sky  and  mut- 
tering to  one  another.  Even  stout  mariners,  disturbed 
and  anxious,  leveled  their  glasses  at  the  sea  from  behind 
places  of  shelter,  as  if  they  were  surveying  an  enemy. 

The  tremendous  sea  itself,  when  I  could  find  sufficient 
pause  to  look  at  it,  in  the  agitation  of  the  blinding  wind, 
the  flying  stones  and  sand,  and  the  awful  noise,  con- 
founded me.  As  the  high,  watery  walls  came  rolling  in, 
and,  at  their  highest,  tumbled  into  surf,  they  looked  as  if 
the  least  would  ingulf  the  town. 

As  the  receding  wave  swept  back  with  a  hoarse  roar,  it 
seemed  to  scoop  out  a  deep  cave  in  the  beach,  as  if  its 
purpose  were  to  undermine  the  earth.  When  some  white- 
headed  billows  thundered  on  and  dashed  themselves  to 
pieces  before  they  reached  the  land,  every  fragment  of 
the  late  whole  seemed  possessed  by  the  full  might  of 
its  wrath,  rushing  to  be  gathered  to  the  composition 
of  another  monster. 

3.  Undulating  hills  were  changed  to  valleys,  undulat- 
ing valleys  (with  a  solitary  stormbird  sometimes  skim- 
ming through  them)  were  lifted  up  to  hills ;  masses  of 


-»»8  14.6  9^ 

water   shivered   and   shook  the  beach  with  a  booming 
sound. 

Every  shape  tumultuously  rolled  on,  as  soon  as  made, 
to  change  its  shape  and  place,  and  beat  another  shape 
and  place  away ;  the  ideal  shore  on  the  horizon,  with  its 
towers  and  buildings,  rose  and  fell ;  the  clouds  flew  fast 
and  quick ;  I  seemed  to  see  a  rending  and  upheaving  of 
all  nature. 

4.  Not  finding  Ham  among  the  people,  I  made  my 
way  to  his  house.  It  was  shut,  and  as  no  one  answered 
to  my  knocking,  I  went,  by  backways  and  by-lanes,  to 
the  yard  where  he  worked.  I  learned  there  that  he  had 
gone  to  Lowestoft  to  meet  some  sudden  exigency  of  ship- 
repairing  in  which  his  skill  was  required,  but  that  he 
would  be  back  to-morrow  morning  in  good  time. 

I  went  back  to  the  inn ;  and  when  I  had  washed  and 
dressed,  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  in  vain,  it  was  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  I  had  not  sat  five  minutes  by  the 
coffee-room  fire  when  the  waiter,  coming  to  stir  it,  told 
me  that  two  colliers  had  gone  down,  with  all  hands,  a 
few  miles  away;  and  that  some  other  ships  had  been  seen 
laboring  hard  in  the  Roads  and  trying  in  great  distress 
to  keep  off  shore. 

5.  If  such  a  wind  could  rise,  I  think  it  was  rising. 
The  howl  and  roar,  the  rattling  of  the  doors  and  windows, 
the  rumbling  in  the  chimneys,  the  apparent  rocking  of 


-^  14.7  8^ 

the  very  house  that  sheltered  me,  and  the  prodigious 
tumult  of  the  sea  were  more  fearful  than  in  the  morning. 
But  there  was  now  a  great  darkness  besides,  and  that 
invested  the  storm  with  new  terrors,  real  and  fanciful. 
At  length,  the  steady  ticking  of  the.  undisturbed  clock  on 
the  wall  tormented  me  to  that  degree  that  I  resolved  to 
go  to  bed. 

6.  When  I  awoke  it  was  broad  day  —  eight  or  nine 
o'clock  ;  the  storm  was  raging,  and  some  one  was  knock- 
ing and  calling  at  my  door. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  cried. 

"  A  wreck !     Close  by !  " 

I  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  asked,  "  What  wreck  ?  " 

"  A  schooner,  from  Spain  or  Portugal,  laden  with  fruit 
and  wine.  Make  haste,  sir,  if  you  want  to  see  her !  It's 
thought,  down  on  the  beach,  she'll  go  to  pieces  every 
moment." 

7.  The  excited  voice  went  clamoring  along  the  stair- 
case ;  and  I  wrapped  myself  in  my  clothes  as  quickly  as 
I  could  and  ran  into  the  street. 

Numbers  of  people  were  there  before  me,  all  running  in 
one  direction  to  the  beach.  I  ran  the  same  way,  outstrip- 
ping a  good  many,  and  soon  came  facing  the  wild  sea. 
Having  upon  it  the  additional  agitation  of  the  whole 
night,  it  was  infinitely  more  terrific  than  when  I  had 
seen  it  last. 


-^  148  8»- 

8.  In  the  difficulty  of  hearing  anything  but  the  wind 
and  waves,  and  in  the  crowd  and  the  unspeakable  con- 
fusion and  my  first  breathless  efforts  to  stand  against  the 
weather,  I  was  sg  confused  that  I  looked  out  to  sea  for 
the  wreck  and  saw  nothing  but  the  foaming  heads  of  the 
great  waves. 

A  half -dressed  boatman  standing  next  to  me  pointed 
with  his  bare  arm  (a  tattooed  arrow  on  it,  pointing  in 
the  same  direction)  to  the  left.  Then  I  saw  it  close  in 
upon  us. 

One  mast  was  broken  short  off  six  or  eight  feet  from 
the  deck  and  lay  over  the  side,  entangled  in  a  maze  of 
sail  and  rigging ;  and  all  that  ruin,  as  the  ship  rolled  and 
beat,  —  which  she  did  without  a  moment's  pause,  and 
with  a  violence  quite  inconceivable,  —  beat  the  side  as 
if  it  would  stave  it  in. 

9.  Some  efforts  were  even  then  being  made  to  cut  this 
portion  of  the  wreck  away ;  for  as  the  ship,  which  was 
broadside  on,  turned  toward  us  in  her  rolling,  I  plainly 
descried  her  people  at  work  with  axes. 

But  a  great  cry,  which  was  audible  even  above  the 
wind  and  water,  rose  from  the  shore  at  this  moment ; 
the  sea,  sweeping  over  the  rolling  wreck,  made  a .  clean 
breach  and  carried  men,  spars,  casks,  planks,  bulwarks, 
heaps  of  such  toys  into  the  boiling  surge. 

10.  The  second  mast  was  yet  standing,  with  the  rags 


^e  1 4-9  8^ 

of  a  rent  sail  and  a  wild  confusion  of  broken  cordage 
flapping  to  and  fro.  The  ship  had  struck  once,  the  same 
boatman  hoarsely  said  in  my  ear,  and  then  lifted  in 
and  struck  again. 

I  understood  him  to  add  that  she  was  parting  amid- 
ships, and  I  could  readily  suppose  so,  for  the  rolling  and 
beating  were  too  tremendous  for  any  human  work  to 
suffer  long. 

There  was  a  bell  on  board,  and  as  the  ship  rolled  and 
dashed,  like  a  desperate  creature  driven  mad,  now  show- 
ing us  the  whole  sweep  of  her  deck  as  she  turned  on  her 
beam-ends  toward  the  shore,  now  nothing  but  her  keel 
as  she  sprang  wildly  over  and  turned  toward  the  sea,  the 
bell  rang  and  its  sound  was  borne  toward  us  on  the  wind. 

11.  Again  we  lost  her,  and  again  she  rose.  The  life- 
boat had  been  bravely  manned  an  hour  ago  and  could 
do  nothing;  and  as  no  man  would  be  so  desperate  as  to 
attempt  to  wade  off  with  a  rope  and  establish  a  com- 
munication with  the  shore,  there  was  nothing  left  to  try. 

All  at  once  I  noticed  that  some  new  sensation  moved 
the  people  on  the  beach  and  saw  them  part  and  Ham 
coming  breaking  through  them  to  the  front.  I  ran  to 
him,  held  him  back  with  both  arms,  and  implored  the 
men  not  to  let  him  stir  from  off  that  sand !  I  might  as 
hopefully  have  entreated  the  wind. 

12.  I  was  swept  away,  but   not   unkindly,  to   some 


-»8  150  9^ 

distance^  where  the  people  around  me  made  me  stay, 
urging,  as  I  confusedly  perceived,  that  he  was  bent  on 
going,  with  help  or  without,  and  that  I  should  endanger 
the  precautions  for  his  safety  by  troubling  those  with 
whom  they  rested. 

I  don't  know  what  I  answered  or  what  they  rejoined  ; 
but  I  saw  them  hurrying  on  the  beach  and  men  running 
with  ropes  from  a  capstan  that  was  there,  and  penetrat- 
ing into  a  circle  of  figures  that  hid  him  from  me. 

Then  I  saw  him  standing  alone  in  a  seaman's  frock 
and  trousers,  a  rope  in  his  hand  or  slung  to  his  wrist, 
another  round  his  body,  and  several  of  the  best  men 
holding  at  a  little  distance  to  the  latter,  which  he  laid 
out  himself,  slack  upon  the  shore  at  his  feet. 

13.  The  wreck  was  breaking  up.  I  saw  that  she  was 
parting  in  the  middle  and  that  the  life  of  the  solitary  man 
upon  the  mast  hung  by  a  thread.     Still  he  clung  to  it. 

Ham  watched  the  sea,  standing  alone,  with  the  silence 
of  suspended  breath  behind  him  and  the  storm  before, 
until  there  was  a  great  retiring  wave,  when,  with  a  back- 
ward glance  at  those  who  held  the  rope  which  was  made 
fast  round  his  body,  he  dashed  in  after  it,  and  in  a 
moment  was  buffeting  with  the  water,  rising  with  the 
hills,  falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  beneath  the  foam, 
then  drawn  again  to  land.     They  hauled  in  hastily. 

14.  He  was  hurt,  but  he  took  no  thought  of  that.     He 


•46  151  Bh- 


THE   SHIPWRECK 


seemed  hurriedly  to  give  them  some  directions  for  leaving 
him  more  free  —  or  so  I  judged  from  the  motion  of  his 
arm  —  and  was  gone  as  before. 

And  now  he  made  for  the  wreck,  rising  with  the  hills, 
falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  beneath  the  rugged  foam, 
borne  in  toward  the  shore,  borne  on  toward  the  ship, 
striving  hard  and  valiantly.  The  distance  was  nothing, 
but  the  power  of  the  sea  and  wind  made  the  strife  deadly. 

At  length  he  neared  the  wreck.  He  was  so  near  that 
with  one  more  of  his  vigorous  strokes  he  would  be  cling- 
ing to  it,  when  a  high,  green,  vast  hillside  of  water 
moved  on  shoreward  from  beyond  the  ship.     He  seemed 


-iQ  \  52  Oh- 
io leap  up  into  it  with  a  mighty  bound,  and  the  ship  was 
gone ! 

.  15.  Some  eddying  fragments  I  saw  in  the  sea,  as  if  a 
mere  cask  had  been  broken,  in  running  to  the  spot  where 
they  were  hauling  in.  Consternation  was  in  every  face. 
They  drew  him  to  my  very  feet — insensible,  dead. 

He  was  carried  to  the  nearest  house ;  and,  no  one  pre- 
venting me  now,  I  remained  near  him,  busy  while  every 
means  of  restoration  was  tried ;  but  he  had  been  beaten 
to  death  by  the  great  wave,  and  his  generous  heart  was 
stilled  forever. 


MAGGIE  TULLIVER  AND  THE  GYPSIES. 

By  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
From  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss." 

Marian  C.  Evans,  known  to  the  literary  world  by  her  pen-name 
of  "  George  Eliot/'  was  born  in  the  north  of  England  about  1820. 
She  was  an  odd  child  and  a  great  pet  of  her  father,  who  delighted 
in  her  quaint  speeches  and  thoughts.  She  had  a  brother,  three 
years  older  than  herself,  who  was  very  dear  to  her,  and  the  little 
girl  would  follow  him  about  the  farm,  with  eyes  full  of  love  and 
admiration. 

In  her  novel  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  "  is  a  picture  of  their  early 
home  life,  Maggie  and  Tom  being  herself  and  her  brother. 

Her  school  life  began  when  she  was  five  years  old,  but  she  learned 
slowly.  In  her  ninth  year  she  was  sent  to  a  larger  school  and 
began  to  love  her  books,  reading  everything  she  could  find.  She 
was  full  of  enthusiasm  for  all  that  was  brave  and  heroic,  and 
eager  for  knowledge. 


-^  153  8<- 


During  her  girlhood  she  went  to  London  and  there  took  a  course 
of  severe  study.  She  did  not  begin  writing  for  the  public  until 
she  was  over  thirty,  "Adam  Bede," 
her  first  book,  being  published  in 
1857. 

Her  pen  was  busy  the  rest  of  her 
life,  and  she  took  her  place  as  one 
of  the  ablest  English  writers.  She 
wrote  a  large  number  of  novels,  each 
making  her  more  famous. 

Her  genius  is  best  shown  in  her  /;f 
pictures  of  country  life  and  studies    *^ 
of  character.     Her  busy  life  closed  in 
1880.  

Maggie  Tulltver  was  an  odd  little  girl,  but  she  was  devoted  to 
her  brother  Tom.  A  pretty  little  cousin  named  Lucy  was  visiting 
at  her  house,  and  Tom  paid  so  much  attention  to  her  that  Maggie 
was  neglected. 

This  made  her  so  angry  that  she  pushed  Lucy  into  the  mud  and 
then  ran  away,  thinking  she  would  go  and  live  with  the  gypsies. 


reckon  9iled 
sem  1  Qir'cu  lar 
cat'e  €hism 


Yict'ual 
dl'a  \ogue 
por  tent'ous 


1.  The  gypsies,  Maggie  considered,  would  gladly  receive 
her  and  pay  her  much  respect  on  account  of  her  superior 
knowledge.  She  had  once  mentioned. her  views  on  this 
point  to  Tom,  and  suggested  that  he  should  stain  his 
face  brown  and  they  should  run  away  together;  but 
Tom  rejected  the  scheme  with  contempt,  observing  that 


-•9  1 54  8^ 

gypsies  were  thieves  and  hardly  got  anything  to  eat  and 
had  nothing  to  drive  but  a  donkey. 

To-day,  however,  Maggie  thought  her  misery  had 
reached  a  point  at  which  gypsydom  was  her  only  refuge, 
,and  she  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  roots  of  the  tree  with 
the  sense  that  this  was  a  great  crisis  in  her  life;  she 
would  run  straight  away  till  she  came  to  Dunlow  Com- 
mon, where  there  would  certainly  be  gypsies,  and  cruel 
Tom  and  the  rest  of  her  relations  who  found  fault  with 
her  should  never  see  her  any  more. 

2.  She  thought  of  her  father  as  she  ran  along,  but 
she  reconciled  herself  to  the  idea  of  parting  with  him  by 
determining  that  she  would  secretly  send  him  a  letter  by 
a  small  gypsy,  who  would  run  away  without  telling  where 
she  was,  and  just  let  him  know  that  she  was  well  and 
happy  and  always  loved  him  very  much. 

Maggie  soon  got  out  of  breath  with  running  and 
stopped  to  pant  a  little,  reflecting  that  running  away  was 
not  a  pleasant  thing  until  one  had  got  quite  to  the  com- 
mon where  the  gypsies  were.  But  her  resolution  had  not 
abated ;  she  presently  passed  through  the  gate  into  the 
lane,  not  knowing  where  it  would  lead  her. 

3.  She  was  used  to  wandering  about  the  fields  by  her- 
self, and  was  less  timid  there  than  on  the  highroad. 
Sometimes  she  had  to  climb  over  high  gates,  but  that 
was  a  small  evil;  she  was  getting  out  of  reach  very  fast 


-48  155  g«- 

At  last,  however,  the  green  fields  came  to  an  end,  and 
Maggie  found  herself  looking  through  the  bars  of  a  gate 
into  a  lane  with  a  wide  margin  of  grass  on  each  side  of  it. 

She  crept  through  the  bars  of  the  gate  and  walked  on 
with  new  spirit,  though  not  without  haunting  images  of 
a  highwayman  with  a  pistol  and  a  blinking  dwarf  in 
yellow  with  a  mouth  from  ear  to  ear;  for  poor  little 
Maggie  had  at  once  the  timidity  of  an  active  imagina- 
tion and  the  daring  that  comes  from  impulse. 

4.  It  was  not  without  a  leaping  of  the  heart  that  she 
caught  sight  of  a  small  pair  of  bare  legs  sticking  up,  feet 
uppermost,  by  the  side  of  a  hillock.  It  was  a  boy  asleep ; 
and  Maggie  trotted  along  faster  and  more  lightly,  lest 
she  should  wake  him. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  was  one  of  her  friends, 
the  gypsies,  who  in  all  probability  would  have  very 
genial  manners.  But  the  fact  was  so,  for  at  the  next 
bend  in  the  lane  Maggie  actually  saw  the  little  semi- 
circular black  tent,  with  the  blue  smoke  rising  before  it, 
which  was  to  be  her  refuge. 

She  even  saw  a  tall  female  figure  by  the  column  of 
smoke,  —  doubtless  the  gypsy  mother,  who  provided  the 
tea  and  other  groceries;  it  was  astonishing  to  herself 
that  she  did  not  feel  more  delighted. 

5.  It  was  plain  she  had  attracted  attention,  for  the 
tall  figure,  who  proved  to  be  a  young  woman  with  a 


-^  156  8^ 


MAGGIE    MEETS    THE    GYPSY 


-i8  157  9»- 

baby  on  her  arm,  walked  slowly  to  meet  her.  Maggie 
looked  up  in  the  new  face  rather  tremblingly  as  it 
approached. 

''Mj  little  lady,  where  are  you  going  to?  "  the  gypsy 
said,  in  a  tone  of  coaxing  deference. 

It  was  delightful  and  just  what  Maggie  expected ;  the 
gypsies  saw  at  once  that  she  was  a  little  lady,  and  were 
prepared  to  treat  her  accordingly. 

"  Not  any  farther,"  said  Maggie,  feeling  as  if  she  were 
saying  what  she  had  rehearsed  in  a  dream.  "  I  'm  come 
to  stay  with  you,  please." 

"  That 's  pretty  ;  come,  then.  Why,  what  a  nice  little 
lady  you  are,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  gypsy,  taking  her  by 
the  hand.  Maggie  thought  her  very  agreeable,  but 
wished  she  had  not  been  so  dirty. 

6.  There  was  quite  a  group  round  the  fire  when  they 
reached  it.  An  old  gypsy  woman  was  seated  on  the 
ground;  two  small  shock-headed  children  were  lying 
prone  and  resting  on  their  elbows,  and  a  placid  donkey 
was  bending  his  head  over  a  tall  girl,  who,  lying  on  her 
back,  was  scratching  his  nose  and  indulging  him  with  a 
bite  of  excellent  stolen  hay. 

The  slanting  sunlight  fell  kindly  upon  them,  and  the 
scene  was  very  pretty  and  comfortable,  Maggie  thought,- 
only  she  hoped  they  would  soon  set  out  the  tea-cups. 
Everything   would    be    quite   charming   when   she    had 


->3B  158  B«- 

taught  the  gypsies  to  use  a  washing-basin  and  to  feel  an 
interest  in  books. 

7.  It  was  a  little  confusing,  though,  that  the  young 
woman  began  to  speak  to  the  old  one  in  a  language  which 
Maggie  did  not  understand,  while  the  tall  girl  who  was 
feeding  the  donkey  sat  up  and  stared  at  her  without 
offering  any  salutation.     At  last  the  old  woman  said  : 

"What,  my  pretty  lady,  are  you  come  to  stay  with 
us?     Sit  ye  down  and  tell  us  where  you  come  from." 

It  was  just  like  a  story;  Maggie  liked  to  be  called 
pretty  lady  and  treated  in  this  way.  She  sat  down  and 
said: 

"  I  'm  come  from  home  because  I  'm  unhappy,  and  I 
mean  to  be  a  gypsy.  I  '11  live  with  you,  if  you  like,  and 
I  can  teach  you  a  great  many  things.'' 

8.  "  Such  a  clever  little  lady,"  said  the  woman  with 
the  baby,  sitting  down  by  Maggie  and  allowing  baby  to 
crawl ;  "  and  such  a  pretty  bonnet  and  frock,"  she  added, 
taking  off  Maggie's  bonnet  and  looking  at  it,  while  she 
made  an  observation  in  the  unknown  language  to  the  old 
woman.  The  tall  girl  snatched  the  bonnet  and  put  it 
on  her  own  head  hind-foremost, with  a  grin  ;  but  Maggie 
was  determined  not  to  show  any  weakness  on  this 
subject. 

"I  don't  want  to  wear  a  bonnet,"  she  said;  "I'd 
rather  wear  a  red  handkerchief  like  yours." 


-♦6  159  8«- 

"Oh,  what  a  nice  little  lady!  —  and  rich,  I'm  sure," 
said  the  old  woman.  "Didn't  you  live  in  a  beautiful 
house  at  home  ?  " 

9.  "  Yes,  my  home  is  pretty,  and  I  'm  very  fond  of  the 
river  where  we  go  fishing;  but  I  'm  often  very  unhappy. 
I  should  have  liked  to  bring  my  books  with  me,  but  I 
came  away  in  a  hurry,  you  know.  But  I  can  tell  you 
almost  everything  there  is  in  my  books,  I  've  read  them 
so  many  times,  and  that  will  amuse  you.  And  I  can  tell 
you  something  about  geography,  too  —  that 's  about  the 
world  we  live  in  —  very  useful  and  interesting.  Did  you 
ever  hear  about  Columbus  ?  " 

10.  Maggie's  eyes  had  begun  to  sparkle  and  her 
cheeks  to  flush  —  she  was  really  beginning  to  instruct 
the  gypsies  and  gaining  great  influence  over  them. 
The  gypsies  themselves  were  not  without  amazement 
at  this  talk,  though  their  attention  was  divided  by  the 
contents  of  Maggie's  pocket,  which  the  friend  at  her 
right  hand  had  by  this  time  emptied  without  attracting 
her  notice. 

"  Is  that  where  you  live,  my  little  lady  ?  "  said  the  old 
woman  at  the  mention  of  Columbus. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Maggie,  with  some  pity;  "Columbus 
was  a  very  wonderful  man  who  found  out  half  the  world, 
and  they  put  chains  on  him,  and  treated  him  very  badly, 
you  know  —  it's  in  my  catechism  of  geography  —  but 


^  160  8«^ 

perhaps  it 's  rather  too  long  to  tell  before  tea.     I  want 
my  tea  so." 

11.  "Why,  she's  hungry,  poor  little  lady,"  said  the 
younger  woman.  "Give  her  some  o'  the  cold  victual. 
You '  ve  been  walking  a  good  way,  I  '11  be  bound,  my 
dear.     Where  's  your  home  ?  " 

"  It 's  Dorlcote  Mill,  a  good  way  off,"  said  Maggie. 
"  My  father  is  Mr.  Tulliver  ;  but  we  must  n't  let  him 
know  where  I  am,  else  he  '11  fetch  me  home  again. 
Where  does  the  queen  of  the  gypsies  live?" 

"  What !  do  you  want  to  go  to  her,  my  little  lady  ?  " 
said  the  younger  woman. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie ;  "  I  'm  only  thinking  that  if  she 
isn't  a  very  good  queen  you  might  be  glad  when  she 
died  and  you  could  choose  another.  If  I  was  a  queen, 
I  'd  be  a  very  good  queen  and  kind  to  everybody." 

"  Here 's  a  bit  o'  nice  victual,  then,"  said  the  old 
woman,  handing  to  Maggie  a  lump  of  dry  bread,  which 
she  had  taken  from  a  bag  of  scraps,  and  a  piece  of  cold 
bacon. 

12.  "Thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  the  food 
without  taking  it ;  "  but  will  you  give  me  some  bread 
and  butter  and  tea  instead  ?     I  don't  like  bacon." 

"  We  've  no  tea  nor  butter,"  said  the  old  woman,  with 
something  like  a  scowl,  as  if  she  were  getting  tired  of 
coaxing. 


h8  161  9»- 

"Oh,  a  little  bread  and  treacle  would  do/'  said 
Maggie. 

"  We  Ve  no  treacle,"  said  the  old  woman  crossly ; 
whereupon  there  followed  a  sharp  dialogue  between  the 
two  women  in  their  unknown  tongue,  and  one  of  the 
small  children  snatched  at  the  bread  and  bacon  and 
began  to  eat  it. 

At  this  moment  the  tall  girl,  who  had  gone  a  few 
yards  off,  came  back  and  said  something  which  pro- 
duced a  strong  effect.  The  old  woman,  seeming  to  for- 
get Maggie's  hunger,  poked  the  skewer  into  the  pot  with 
new  vigor,  and  the  younger  crept  under  the  tent  and 
reached  out  some  platters  and  spoons. 

13.  Maggie  trembled  a  little  and  was  afraid  the  tears 
would  come  into  her  eyes.  But  the  springing  tears  were 
checked  by  a  new  terror  when  two  men  came  up.  The 
elder  of  the  two  carried  a  bag,  which  he  flung  down, 
addressing  the  women  in  a  loud  and  scolding  tone,  while 
a  black  cur  ran  barking  up  to  Maggie  and  threw  her  into 
a  tremor. 

Maggie  felt  that  it  was  impossible  she  should  ever  be 
queen  of  these  people  or  ever  communicate  to  them 
amusing  and  useful  knowledge. 

Both  the  men  now  seemed  to  be  inquiring  about 
Maggie,  for  they  looked  at  her,  and  the  tone  of  the  con- 
versation became  of  that  kind  which  implies  curiosity  on 


-le  1 62  8«- 

one  side  and  the  power  of  satisfying  it  on  the  other.     At 
last  the  younger  woman  said,  in  her  coaxing  tone : 

"  This  nice  little  lady  's  come  to  live  with  us;  aren't 
you  glad  V* 

14.  "  Ay,  very  glad,''  said  the  younger,  who  was  looking 
at  Maggie's  silver  thimble  and  other  small  matters  that 
had  been  taken  from  her  pocket.  He  returned  them  all, 
except  the  thimble,  to  the  younger  woman,  and  she 
immediately  restored  them  to  Maggie's  pocket,  while  the 
men  seated  themselves  and  began  to  attack  the  contents 
of  the  kettle,  —  a  stew  of  meat  and  potatoes,  —  which  had 
been  taken  off  the  fire  and  turned  out  into  a  yellow  platter. 

Maggie  began  to  think  that  Tom  must  be  right  about 
the  gypsies ;  they  must  certainly  be  thieves,  unless  the 
man  meant  to  return  her  thimble  by  and  by.  She 
would  willingly  have  given  it  to  him,  for  she  was  not  at 
all  attached  to  her  thimble;  but  the  idea  that  she  was 
among  thieves  prevented  her  from  feeling  any  comfort  in 
the  revival  of  attention  toward  her.  All  thieves  except 
Robin  Hood  were  wicked  people.  The  woman  saw  that 
she  was  frightened. 

15.  "We  've  got  nothing  nice  for  a  lady  to  eat,"  said 
the  old  woman,  in  her  coaxing  tone.  "And  she's  so 
hungry,  sweet  little  lady." 

"  Here,  my  dear,  try  if  you  can  eat  a  bit  o'  this,"  said 
the  younger  woman,   handing   some  of   the  stew  on  a 


-^  163  8«^ 

brown  dish  with  an  iron  spoon  to  Maggie,  who,  remem- 
bering that  the  old  woman  had  seemed  angry  with  her 
for  not  liking  the  bread  and  bacon,  dared  not  refuse  the 
stew,  though  fear  had  chased  away  her  appetite. 

If  her  father  would  but  come  by  in  the  gig  and  take  her 
up !  Or  even  if  Jack  the  Giant-killer,  or  Mr.  Greatheart, 
or  St.  George,  who  slew  the  dragon  on  the  half-pennies, 
would  happen  to  pass  that  way!  But  Maggie  thought 
with  a  sinking  heart  that  these  heroes  were  never  seen  in 
the  neighborhood  of  St.  Ogg's.  Nothing  very  wonderful 
ever  came  there. 

16.  Her  ideas  about  the  gypsies  had  undergone  a  rapid 
modification  in  the  last  five  minutes.  From  having  con- 
sidered them  very  respectful  companions,  she  had  begun 
to  think  that  they  meant  perhaps  to  kill  her  as  soon 
as  it  was  dark.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  eat  the  stew, 
and  yet  the  thing  she  most  dreaded  was  to  offend  the 
gypsies. 

"  What !  you  don't  like  the  smell  of  it,  my  dear,"  said 
the  young  woman,  observing  that  Maggie  did  not  even 
take  a  spoonful  of  the  stew.     "  Try  a  bit,  come." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  trying  to  smile  in  a 
friendly  way.  "I  haven't  time,  I  think;  it  seems 
getting  darker.  I  think  I  must  go  home  now  and  come 
again  another  day,  and  then  I  can  bring  you  a  basket 
with  some  jam  tarts  and  nice  things." 


-»8  1 64  8«- 

17.  Maggie  rose  from  her  seat;  but  her  hope  sank 
when  the  old  gypsy  woman  said,  "  Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit, 
little  lady ;  we  '11  take  you  home,  all  safe,  when  we ' ve 
done  supper.     You  shall  ride  home  like  a  lady." 

Maggie  sat  down  again,  with  little  faith  in  this  prom- 
ise, though  she  presently  saw  the  tall  girl  putting  a  bridle 
on  the  donkey  and  throwing  a  couple  of  bags  on  his 
back. 

"  Now,  then,  little  missis,"  said  the  younger  man,  ris- 
ing and  leading  the  donkey  forward,  "  tell  us  where  you 
live ;  what 's  the  name  o'  the  place  ?  " 

"Dorlcote  Mill  is  my  home,"  said  Maggie  eagerly. 
"  My  father  is  Mr.  Tulliver ;  he  lives  there." 

^^What!  a  big  mill  a  little  way  this  side  o'  St.  Ogg  s?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  Is  it  far  off  ?  I  think  I  should 
like  to  walk  there,  if  you  please." 

18.  "No,  no,  it'll  be  getting  dark;  we  must  make 
haste.  And  the  donkey  '11  carry  you  as  nice  as  can  be  ; 
you  '11  see." 

He  lifted  Maggie  as  he  spoke  and  set  her  on  the 
donkey. 

"  Here  's  your  pretty  bonnet,"  said  the  younger  woman, 
putting  that  recently  despised  but  now  welcome  article 
of  costume  on  Maggie's  head ;  "  and  you  '11  say  we  've 
been  very  good  to  you,  won't  you?  and  what  a  nice  little 
lady  we  said  you  was  ?  " 


-»8  1 65  9«- 

>'  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  But  I  wish  you  'd  go  with  me,  too."  She 
thought  anything  was  better  than  going  with  one  of  the 
dreadful  men  alone. 

"Ah!  you're  fondest  o'  me,  aren't  you?"  said  the 
woman.     "  But  I  can't  go;  you'll  go  too  fast  for  me." 

19.  It  now  appeared  that  the  man  also  was  to  be 
seated  on  the  donkey,  holding  Maggie  before  him. 
When  the  woman  had  patted  her  on  the  back  and  said 
"  Good-bye,"  the  donkey,  at  a  strong  hint  from  the  man's 
stick,  set  oft'  at  a  rapid  walk  along  the  lane  toward  the 
point  Maggie  had  come  from  an  hour  ago.  The  tall 
girl  and  the  rough  urchin,  also  furnished  with  sticks, 
obligingly  escorted  them  for  the  first  hundred  yards, 
with  much  screaming  and  thwacking. 

Much  terrified  was  poor  Maggie  in  this  entirely  natu- 
ral ride  on  a  short-paced  donkey,  with  a  gypsy  behind 
her,  who  considered  that  he  was  earning  half  a  crown. 

The  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  seemed  to  have  a  por- 
tentous meaning,  with  which  the  alarming  bray  of  the 
second  donkey  with  the  log  on  its  foot  must  surely  have 
some  connection. 

20.  Two  low,  thatched  cottages  —  the  only  houses  they 
passed  in  this  lane  —  seemed  to  add  to  its  dreariness; 
they  had  no  windows  to  speak  of,  and  the  doors  were 
closed.     It  was  probable  that  they  were  inhabited  by 


witches,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  find  that  the  donkey  did 
not  stop  there. 

At  last  —  oh,  sight  of  joy!  —  this  lane,  the  longest 
in  the  world,  was  coming  to  an  end,  was  opening  on 
a  broad  highroad,  where  there  was  actually  a  coach  pass- 
ing! The  gypsy  really  meant  to  take  her  home,  then;  he 
was  probably  a  good  man,  after  all,  and  might  have  been 
rather  hurt  at  the  thought  that  she  did  n't  like  coming 
with  him  alone. 

This  idea  became  stronger  as  she  felt  more  and  more 
certain  that  she  knew  the  road  quite  well,  and  she  was 
considering  how  she  might  open  a  conversation  with  the 
injured  gypsy  when,  as  they  reached  a  cross-road,  Maggie 
caught  sight  of  some  one  coming  on  a  white-faced  horse. 

21.  "  Oh,  stop,  stop !  "  she  cried  out.  ''  There  's  my 
father!     0,  father,  father  1 '' 

The  sudden  joy  was  almost  painful,  and  before  her 
father  reached  her  she  was  sobbing.  Great  was  Mr.  Tul- 
liver's  wonder,  for  he  had  made  a  roimd  from  Basset  and 
had  not  yet  been  home. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  meaning  o'  this  ?  "  he  said,  checking 
his  horse,  while  Maggie  slipped  from  the  donkey  and  ran 
to  her  father's  stirrup. 

"  The  little  miss  lost  herself,  I  reckon,"  said  the  gypsy. 
"  She  'd  come  to  our  tent  at  the  far  end  o'  Dunlow  Lane, 
and  I  was  bringing  her  where  she  said  her  home  was. 


-^  167  8«- 

It 's  a  good  way  to  come  arter  being  on  the  tramp  all 
day." 

22.  "  Oh,  yes,  father,  he  's  been  very  good  to  bring  me 
home,"  said  Maggie.     "  A  very  kind,  good  man !  " 

"  Here,  then,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  taking  out 
five  shillings.  "  It 's  the  best  day's  work  you  ever  did. 
I  could  n't  afford  to  lose  my  darling  girl ;  here,  lift  her 
up  before  me." 

"Why,  Maggie,  how's  this?  how's  this?"  he  said 
as  they  rode  along,  while  she  laid  her  head  against 
her  father  and  sobbed.  "  How  came  you  to  be  rambling 
about  and  lose  yourself?" 

23.  "0  father,"  sobbed  Maggie,  "  I  ran  away  because 
I  was  so  unhappy.  Tom  was  so  angry  with  me.  I 
could  n't  bear  it." 

"  Pooh !  pooh  !  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver  soothingly,  "  you 
must  n't  think  o'  running  away  from  father.  What  would 
father  do  without  his  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  never  will  again,  father  —  never." 

Mr.  Tulliver  spoke  his  mind  very  strongly  when  he 
reached  home  that  evening.  Maggie  never  heard  one  re- 
proach from  her  mother  or  one  taunt  from  Tom  about 
her  running  away  to  the  gypsies. 

Maggie  was  rather  awe-stricken  by  this  unusual  treat- 
ment and  sometimes  thought  that  her  conduct  had  been 
too  wicked  to  be  alluded  to. 


-)6  168  8**- 
THE  SHELL. 

By  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine. 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl. 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design! 

What  is  it?    A  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can. 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurled, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Through  his  dim  water  world? 


-^  169  8«^ 

Slight,  to  be  crushed  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger  nail  on  the  sand ! 
Small,  but  a  work  divine! 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 


THE  TWO  HERD-BOYS. 

(Abridged.) 
By  BAYAED  TAYLOR. 

man  u  f  ac'ture  m  tSFli  genqe 

es  tab'lish  ments  connate  nauQe 

grbsch'en  ko'bolds 

tAaler  dis  m  clmed' 

1.  When  I  was  in  Germany  I  spent  several  weeks  of 
the  summer  time  in  a  small  town  among  the  Thuringian 
Mountains.  There  is  not  much  farming  land.  The  men 
cut  wood,  the  women  spin  flax  and  bleach  linen,  and  the 
children  gather  berries,  tend  cattle  on  the  high  mountain 
pastures,  or  act  as  guides  to  the  summer  travelers. 


-•9  170B^ 

A  great  many  find  employment  in  the  manufacture  of 
toys,  for  which  there  are  several  establishments  in  this 
region,  producing  annually  many  thousands  of  crying 
and  speaking  dolls,  bleating  lambs,  barking  dogs,  and 
roaring  lions. 

2.  Behind  the  town  where  I  lived,  there  was  a  spur  of 
the  mountains,  crowned  by  the  walls  of  a  castle  built  by 
one  of  the  dukes  who  ruled  over  that  part  of  Saxony 
eight  or  nine  hundred  years  ago. 

In  many  places  the  forest  had  been  cut  away,  leaving 
open  tracts  where  the  sweet  mountain  grass  grew  thick 
and  strong,  and  where  there  were  always  masses  of 
heather,  harebells,  foxgloves,  and  wild  pinks. 

Every  morning  all  the  cattle  of  the  town  were  driven 
up  to  these  pastures,  each  animal  with  a  bell  hanging  to 
its  neck,  and  the  sound  of  so  many  hundred  bells  tinkling 
all  at  once  made  a  chime  which  could  be  heard  at  a  long 
distance. 

3.  One  of  my  favorite  walks  was  to  mount  to  the 
ruined  castle  and  pass  beyond  it  to  the  flowery  pasture 
slopes,  from  which  I  had  a  wide  view  of  the  level  country 
to  the  north  and  the  mountain  ridges  on  both  sides. 

One  day  during  my  ramble  I  came  upon  two  smaller 
herds  of  cattle,  each  tended  by  a  single  boy.  They  were 
near  each  other,  but  not  on  the  same  pasture,  for  there 
was  a  deep  hollow,  or  dell,  between. 


■*iQ  171  8«- 

As  I  came  out  of  a  thicket  upon  the  clearing  on  one 
side  of  the  hollow,  the  herd-boy  tending  the  cattle  nearest 
to  me  was  sitting  among  the  grass  and  singing  with  all 
his  might  the  German  song  commencing, 

"Tra,  ri,  ro  ! 
The  summer  's  here,  I  know  ! " 

His  back  was  towards  me,  but  I  noticed  that  his  elbows 
were  moving  very  rapidly.  Curious  to  learn  what  he 
was  doing,  I  slipped  quietly  around  some  bushes  to  a 
point  where  I  could  see  him  distinctly,  and  found  that 
he  was  knitting  a  woolen  stocking.  Presently  he  lifted 
his  head,  looked  across  to  the  opposite  pasture,  and  cried 
out,  "  Hans  !  the  cows  !  " 

4.  I  looked  also,  and  saw  another  boy  of  about  the 
same  age  start  up  and  run  after  his  cattle,  the  last  one  of 
which  was  entering  the  forests.  Then  the  boy  near  me 
gave  a  glance  at  his  own  cattle,  which  were  quietly 
grazing  on  the  slope  a  little  below  him,  and  went  on 
with  his  knitting. 

I  prevailed  upon  him  to  tell  me  his  name  and  age. 
He  was  called  Otto  and  was  twelve  years  old  ;  his  father 
was  a  woodcutter,  and  his  mother  spun  and  bleached 
linen. 

"  And  how  much,"  I  asked  him,  "  do  you  get  for  tak- 
ing care  of  the  cattle?" 


-46  1 72  8^ 

5.  *^I  am  to  have  five  thalers"  (about  four  dollars),  he 
answered,  "  for  the  whole  summer.  But  it  does  n't  go  to 
me ;  it 's  for  father.  But  then  I  make  a  good  many 
groschen  by  knitting,  and  that's  for  my  winter  clothes. 

''  Last  year  I  could  buy  a  coat,  and  this  year  I  want  to 
get  enough  for  trousers  and  new  shoes.  Since  the  cattle 
know  me  so  well,  I  have  only  to  talk  and  they  mind  me ; 
and  that,  you  see,  gives  me  plenty  of  time  to  knit.'' 

"  I  see,"  I  said ;  "  it 's  a  very  good  arrangement.  I 
suppose  the  cattle  over  on  the  other  pasture  don't  know 
their  boy  ?    He  has  not  got  them  all  out  of  the  woods 

yet." 

^^Yes,  they  know  him,"  said  Otto,  '^and  that's  the 
reason  they  slip  away.  But  then  cattle  mind  some  per- 
sons better  than  others ;  I  've  seen  that  much." 

6.  Here  he  stopped  talking  and  commenced  knitting 
again.  He  evidently  wanted  to  make  the  most  of  his 
time.  Then  I  again  looked  across  the  hollow,  where 
Hans  —  the  other  boy — had^at  last  collected  his  cows. 

He  stood  on  the  top  of  a  rock  flinging  stones  down  the 
steep  slope.  When  he  had  no  more  he  stuck  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  whistled  loudly  to  draw  Otto's  atten- 
tion ;  but  the  latter  pretended  not  to  hear. 

7.  A  few  days  afterwards  I  went  up  to  the  pasture 
again,  and  came,  by  chance,  to  the  head  of  the  little  dell 
dividing  the  two  herds.     The  first  object  which  attracted 


-H8  173  8^ 

my  attention  was  Otto,  knitting,  as  usual,  beside  his  herd 
of  cows. 

Then  I  turned  to  the  other  side  to  discover  what  Hans 
was  doing.  His  cattle  this  time  were  not  straying ;  but 
neither  did  he  appear  to  be  minding  them  in  the  least. 
He  was  walking  on  the  mountain  side  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ground. 

Sometimes  he  would  walk  on,  pull  a  blue  flower  and 
then  a  yellow  one,  look  at  them  sharply,  and  throw  them 
away.     "  What  is  he  after  ?  "  I  said  to  myself. 

8.  The  cattle  were  no  doubt  acquainted  with  his  ways 
(it  is  astonishing  how  much  intelligence  they  have!) 
and  they  immediately  began  to  move  towards  the  forest 
and  would  soon  have  wandered  away  if  I  had  not  headed 
them  off  and  driven  them  back.  Then  I  followed  them, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  Hans,  who  had  been  aroused  by 
the  noise  of  their  bells  as  they  ran  from  me. 

"  You  don't  keep  a  very  good  watch,  my  boy !  "  I  said. 

As  he  made  no  answer,  I  asked,  "  Have  you  lost  any- 
thing?" 

"No,"  he  then  said. 

"  What  have  you  been  hunting  so  long  ?  " 

He  looked  confused,  turned  away  his  head,  and  mut- 
tered, "Nothing."^ 

9.  This  made  me  sure  he  had  been  hunting  something, 
and  T  felt  a  little  curiosity  to  know  what  it  was.     But, 


-«  1 74  8^ 

although  I  asked  him  again  and  offered  to  help  him  hunt 
it,  he  would  tell  me  nothing.  He  had  a  restless  and 
rather  unhappy  look,  quite  different  from  the  bright, 
cheerful  eyes  and  pleasant  countenance  of  Otto. 

His  father,  he  said,  worked  in  a  mill  below  the  town 
and  got  good  wages;  so  he  was  allowed  half  the  pay  for 
tending  the  cattle  during  the  summer. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  the  money  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  '11  soon  spend  it,"  he  said.  "  I  could  spend  a 
hundred  times  that  much  if  I  had  it." 

"  Indeed  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  No  doubt  it 's  all  the  better 
that  you  have  n't  it." 

10.  He  did  not  seem  to  like  this  remark  and  was  after- 
wards disinclined  to  talk  ;  so  I  left  him  and  went  over  to 
Otto,  who  was  as  busy  and  cheerful  as  ever. 

"  Otto,"  said  I,  "  do  you  know  what  Hans  is  hunting 
all  over  the  pasture  ?     Has  he  lost  anything  ?  " 

"  No,"  Otto  answered,  "  he  has  not  lost  anything,  and 
I  don't  believe  he  will  find  anything,  either.  Because, 
even  if  it 's  all  true,  they  say  you  never  come  across  it 
when  you  look  for  it,  but  it  just  shows  itself  all  at  once 
when  you  're  not  expecting  it." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

11.  Otto  looked  at  me  a  moment  and  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate. He  appeared  also  to  be  a  little  surprised.  He 
finally  asked,  "  Don't  you  know,  sir,  what  the  shepherd 


-•8  1 75  8«- 

found,  somewhere  about  here,  a  great  many  hundred 
years  ago  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"Not  the  key-flower?" 

Then  I  did  know  what  he  meant  and  understood  the 
whole  matter  in  a  moment.  But  I  wanted  to  know  what 
Otto  had  heard  of  the  story,  and  therefore  said  to  him, 
"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  all  about  it." 

12.  "  Well,"  he  began,  "  some  say  it  was  true  and  some 
that  it  was  n't.  At  any  rate,  it  was  a  long,  long  while 
ago,  and  there  's  no  telling  how  much  to  believe.  My 
grandmother  told  me;  but,  then,  she  didn't  know  the 
man.  She  only  heard  about  him  from  her  grandmother. 
He  was  a  shepherd  and  used  to  tend  his  sheep  on  the 
mountain  —  or  maybe  it  was  cows,  I  'm  not  sure  —  in 
some  place  where  there  were  a  great  many  kobolds  and 
fairies. 

13.  "It  was  in  summer,  and  he  was  walking  along  after 
his  sheep,  when  all  at  once  he  saw  a  wonderful,  sky-blue 
flower,  of  a  kind  he  had  never  seen  before  in  all  his  life. 
Some  people  say  it  was  sky-blue  and  some  that  it  was 
golden  yellow ;  I  don't  know  which  is  right.  Well,  how- 
ever it  was,  there  was  the  wonderful  flower,  as  large  as 
your  hand,  growing  in  the  grass. 

"  The  shepherd  stooped  down  and  broke  the  stem ;  but 
just  as  he  was  lifting  up  the  flower  to  examine  it  he  saw 


-<8  176  8^ 

that  there  was  a  door  in  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Now, 
he  had  been  over  the  ground  a  hundred  times  before  and 
had  never  seen  anything  of  the  kind. 

"  He  looked  into  it  for  a  long  time  and  at  last  plucked 
up  heart  and  in  he  went.  After  forty  or  fifty  steps  he 
found  himself  in  a  large  hall  full  of  chests  of  gold  and 
diamonds.  There  was  an  old  kobold  with  a  white  beard 
sitting  in  a  chair  beside  a  large  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
hall. 

''  The  shepherd  was  at  first  frightened,  but  the  kobold 
looked  at  him  with  a  friendly  face  and  said,  '  Take  what 
you  want,  and  don't  forget  the  best ! ' 

14.  '^  So  the  shepherd  laid  the  flower  on  the  table  and 
went  to  work  and  filled  his  pockets  with  the  gold  and 
diamonds.  When  he  had  as  much  as  he  could  carry  the 
kobold  said  again,  ^  Don't  forget  the  best ! '  '  That  I 
won't,'  the  shepherd  thought  to  himself,  and  took  more 
gold  and  the  biggest  diamonds  he  could  find,  and  filled  his 
hat  so  that  he  could  scarcely  stagger  under  the  load. 

"He  was  leaving  the  hall  when  the  kobold  cried  out, 
^  Don't  forget  the  best ! '  But  he  could  n't  carry  any 
more  and  went  on,  never  minding.  When  he  reached 
the  door  on  the  mountain  side,  he  heard  the  voice  again 
for  the  last  time,  '  Don't  forget  the  best ! ' 

15.  "  The  next  minute  he  was  out  on  the  pasture. 
When  he  looked  around,  the  door  had  disappeared ;  his 


-i8  1 77  8^ 

pockets  and  hat  grew  light  all  at  once,  and  instead  of 
gold  and  diamonds  he  found  nothing  but  dry  leaves  and 
pebbles.  He  was  as  poor  as  ever,  and  all  because  he  had 
forgotten  the  best. 

"Now,  sir,  do  you  know  what  the  best  was  ?  Why,  it 
was  the  flower  which  he  had  left  on  the  table  in  the 
kobold's  hall.  That  was  the  key-flower.  When  you  find 
it  and  pull  it,  the  door  is  opened  to  all  the  treasures 
under  ground. 

"  If  the  shepherd  had  kept  it,  the  gold  and  diamonds 
would  have  stayed  so  ;  and,  besides,  the  door  would  have 
been  always  open  to  him,  and  he  could  then  help  himself 
whenever  he  wanted." 

16.  "Did  you  ever  look  for  the  key-flower?"  I  asked 
Otto. 

He  grew  a  little  red  in  the  face,  then  laughed,  and 
answered :  "  Oh,  that  was  the  first  summer  I  tended  the 
cattle,  and  I  soon  got  tired  of  it.  But  I  guess  the  flower 
does  n't  grow  any  more  now." 

"How  long  has  Hans  been  looking  for  it?^' 
"  He  looks  every  day,"  said  Otto,  "  when  he  gets  tired 
of  doing  nothing.     But  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  was 
thinking  about  it  all  the  time,  or  he  'd  look  after  his 
cattle  better  than  he  does." 

17.  As  I  walked  down  the  mountain  that  afternoon  I 
thought  a  great  deal  about  these  two  herd-boys  and  the 


->8  178  8^ 

story  of  the  key-flower.  Up  to  this  time  the  story  had 
only  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  curious  and  beautiful  fairy 
tale ;  but  now  I  began  to  think  it  might  mean  something 
more.  Here  was  Hans  neglecting  his  cows  and  making 
himself  restless  and  unhappy  in  the  hope  of  some  day 
finding  the  key-flower ;  while  Otto,  who  remembered  that 
it  can't  be  found  by  hunting  for  it,  was  attentive  to  his 
task,  always  earning  a  little,  and  always  contented. 

Therefore,  the  next  time  I  walked  up  to  the  pastures 
I  went  straight  to  Hans.  "Have  you  found  the  key- 
flower  yet  ?  "  I  asked. 

18.  There  was  a  curious  expression  upon  his  face.  He 
appeared  to  be  partly  ashamed  of  what  he  must  now  and 
then  have  suspected  to  be  a  folly,  and  partly  anxious  to 
know  if  I  could  tell  him  where  the  flower  grew. 

"  See  here,  Hans,"  said  I,  seating  myself  upon  a  rock. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  those  who  hunt  for  it  never  find 
it  ?  Of  course  you  have  not  found  it,  and  you  never  will, 
in  this  way.  But  even  if  you  should,  you  are  so  anxious 
for  the  gold  and  diamonds  that  you  would  be  sure  to 
forget  the  best,  just  as  the  shepherd  did,  and  would  find 
nothing  but  leaves  and  pebbles  in  your  pockets." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  he  exclaimed ;  'Hhat  's  just  what  I  would  n't 
do." 

19.  "  Don't  you  forget  your  work  every  day  ?  "  I  asked. 
''  You  are  forgetting  the  best  all  the  time,  —  I  mean  the 


-•8  179  Si- 
best  that  you  have  at  present.      Now,  I  believe  there  is  a 
key-flower  growing  on  these  very  mountains ;   and,  what 
is  more,  Otto  has  found  it ! " 

He  looked  at  me  in  astonishment. 

"Don't  you  see,"  I  continued,  "how  happy  and  con- 
tented he  is  all  the  day  long  ?  He  does  not  work  as  hard 
at  his  knitting  as  you  do  in  hunting  for  the  flower; 
and,  although  you  get  half  your  summer's  wages  and  he 
nothing,  he  will  be  richer  than  you  in  the  fall.  He  will 
have  a  small  piece  of  gold,  and  it  won't  change  into  a 
leaf.  Besides,  when  a  boy  is  contented  and  happy  he 
has  gold  and  diamonds." 

20.  I  saw  that  Hans  was  not  a  bad  boy ;  he  was  simply 
restless,  impatient,  and  perhaps  a  little  inclined  to  envy 
those  in  better  circumstances.  I  knew  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  change  his  habits  of  thinking  and  wishing. 
But,  after  a  long  talk,  he  promised  me  he  would  try,  and 
that  was  as  much  as  I  expected. 

Now  you  may  want  to  know  whether  he  did  try,  and 
I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  left  the  place  soon 
afterwards  and  have  never  been  there  since.  Let  us  all 
hope,  however,  that  he  found  the  real  key-flower. 


-»9  1 80  9^ 
INCIDENT   OF  THE   FRENCH  CAMP. 

By  ROBERT  BROWNING. 

A  GREAT  English  poet,  much  praised  by  his  admirers,  and  yet  by 
no  means  popular  or  widely  read,  is  Eobert  Browning.  He  was 
born  near  London  in  1812,  and  received  a  good  education. 

At  an  early  age  he  began  to  write  poetry  and  continued  to  write 
during  all  his  long  life.  From  the  first  he  showed  originality 
and  was  little  governed  by  popular  opinion.  He  married  Elizabeth 
Barrett,  the  author  of  many  beautiful  poems. 

Mr.  Browning  is  best  known  by  a  few  short  poems  which  have 
been  widely  read.  Among  these  are  the  following  :  "  Incident  of 
the  French  Camp,"  "  How  we  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 
to  Aix,"  and  "  The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin." 

Mr.  Browning  died  in  Venice  in  1889. 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Katisbon ; 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming  day  ; 
With  neck  out-thriist,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army  leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall." 


-4Q   181  8«- 


NAPOLEON    AND    THE    WOUNDED    BOY 


Out  'twixt  the  battery  smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 


Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy ; 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through — 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


^  182  8(^ 

"  Well/'  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  Ve  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal 's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  ! "    The  chief's  eye  flashed ;   his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother  eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes. 
"You  're  wounded !  "     "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said, 
"  I  'm  killed.  Sire  1  "    And  his  chief  beside^ 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


"•Jq    I  OO  \jf*" 


MARY  ELIZABETH. 


HER    TRUE    STORY. 


(Abridged.) 
By  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS. 

It  may  be  remembered  that  we  had  in  the  Third  Eeader  a 
most  interesting  selection  by  Miss  Phelps,  called  "  Tiny's  First  and 
Only  Lie." 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  was  the  daughter  of  Austin  Phelps,  a 
famous   preacher  and  professor  at  the  Theological   Seminary  in 
Andover,  Mass.,  and  also  the  grand- 
daughter of  Moses  Stuart,  another 
famous  professor  at  the  same  theo- 
logical school. 

Miss  Phelps  began  to  write  stories 
at  an  early  age  and  has  been  busy 
with  her  pen  for  these  many  years. 
Her  ^^Trotty"  and  "Gypsy"  books 
have  been  widely  read.  These  pop- 
ular juveniles  still  hold  a  high  rank 
with  young  readers. 

You  will  wish  to  read  some  day 
her  sketch  entitled  "  The  Tenth  of 

January,"  a  most  vivid  and  romantic  story  of  the  terrible  catas- 
trophe at  Lawrence,  almost  forty  years  ago,  when  the  Pemberton 
Mill  fell. 

While  Miss  Phelps  has  written  notable  juvenile  books,  she  is 
most  favorably  known  by  her  novels  intended  for  adult  readers. 
She  gained  fame  by  the  signal  ability  shown  by  the  publication  of 
"  Gates  Ajar,"  published  in  1868. 

No  doubt  you  will  wish  to  read,  when  you  are  older,  <^  The  Silent 


-♦8  1 84.  8^ 

Partner";  "Hedged  In";  ''A  Singular  Life";  "Jack  the  Fisher- 
man"; "A  Madonna  of  the  Tubs";  and  other  famous  books  by 
this  talented  author. 

Miss  Phelps  was  married  a  few  years  ago  to  Mr.  Ward,  but  she 
is  known  to  the  literary  world  by  her  maiden  name. 

des  per  action  dis'si  pat  ed 

de  bawch'  cor^ri  dor 

1.  Mary  Elizabeth  was  a  little  girl  with  a  long  name. 
She  was  poor,  she  was  sick,  she  was  ragged,  she  was  dirty, 
she  was  cold,  she  was  hungry,  she  was  frightened.  She 
had  no  home,  she  had  no  mother,  she  had  no  father.  She 
had  no  supper,  she  had  had  no  dinner,  she  had  had  no 
breakfast.  She  had  no  place  to  go  and  nobody  to  care 
whether  she  went  or  not. 

In  fact,  Mary  Elizabeth  had  not  much  of  anything  but 
a  short  pink  calico  dress,  a  little  red  cotton-and-wool 
shawl,  and  her  long  name.  Besides  this,  she  had  a  pair 
of  old  rubbers  too  large  for  her. 

2.  She  was  walking  up  Washington  Street  in  Boston. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  bitter  January  day. 
Already  the  lamplighters  were  coming  with  their  long 
poles,  and  gaslights  began  to  flash  upon  the  grayness  — 
neither  day  nor  night  y-  through  which  the  child  watched 
the  people  moving  dimly,  with  a  wonder  in  her  heart. 
This  wonder  was  as  confused  as  the  half-light  in  which 
the  crowd  hurried  by. 


->8  185  8«- 

*^God  made  so  many  people,"  thought  Mary  Elizabeth, 
"  he  must  have  made  so  many  suppers.  Seems  as  if 
there  'd  ought  to  been  one  for  one  extry  little  girl." 

But  she  thought  this  in  a  gentle  way.  She  was  a  very 
gentle  little  girl.  All  girls  who  had  n't  anything  were  not 
like  Mary  Elizabeth. 


3.  So  now  she  was  shuffling  up  Washington  Street,  not 
knowing  exactly  what  to  do  next,  —  peeping  into  people's 
faces,  timidly  looking  away  from  them,  hesitating,  heart- 
sick (for  a  very  little  girl  can  be  very  heartsick),  colder, 
she  thought,  every  minute  and  hungrier  each  hour  than 
she  was  the  hour  before. 

The  child  left  Washington  Street  at  last,  where  every- 
body had  homes  and  suppers  without  one  extra  one  to 
spare  for  a  little  girl,  and  turned  into  a  short,  bright, 
showy  street,  where  stood  a  great  hotel. 

4.  Whether  the  door-keeper  was  away,  or  busy,  or  sick, 
or  careless,  or  whether  the  head  waiter  at  the  dining-room 
door  was  so  tall  that  he  could  n't  see  so  short  a  beggar,  or 
whether  the  clerk  at  the  desk  was  so  noisy  that  he  could  n't 
hear  so  still  a  beggar,  or  however  it  was,  Mary  Elizabeth 
did  get  in ;  by  the  door-keeper,  past  the  head  waiter, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  clerk,  over  the  smooth,  slippery, 
marble  floor  the  child  crept  on. 


-»8  186  8«- 

She  came  to  the  office  door  and  stood  still.  She 
looked  around  her  with  wide  eyes.  She  had  never  seen 
a  place  like  that.  Lights  flashed  over  it,  many  and  bright. 
Gentlemen  sat  in  it  smoking  and  reading.  They  were  all 
warm.  Not  one  of  them  looked  as  if  he  had  had  no  din- 
ner and  no  breakfast  and  no  supper. 

5.  "  How  many  extry  suppers/'  thought  the  little  girl, 
"it  must  ha'  taken  to  feed  'em  all.  I  guess  maybe 
there  '11  be  one  for  me  in  here." 

Mary  Elizabeth  stood  in  the  middle  of  it,  in  her  pink 
calico  dress  and  red  plaid  shawl.  The  shawl  was  tied 
over  her  head  and  about  her  neck  with  a  ragged  tippet. 

She  looked  very  funny  and  round  behind,  like  the 
wooden  women  in  the  Noah's  ark.  Her  bare  feet  showed 
in  the  old  rubbers.  She  began  to  shuffle  about  the  room, 
holding  out  one  purple  little  hand. 

6.  One  or  two  of  the  gentlemen  laughed;  some 
frowned ;  more  did  nothing  at  all ;  most  did  not  notice, 
or  did  not  seem  to  notice,  the  child.     One  said : 

"What 's  the  matter  here  ?" 

Mary  Elizabeth  shuffled  on.  She  went  from  one  to 
another,  less  timidly;  a  kind  of  desperation  had  taken 
possession  of  her.  The  odors  from  the  dining-room  came 
in,  of  strong,  hot  coffee  and  strange,  roast  meats.  Mary 
Elizabeth  thought  of  Jo. 

It  seemed  to  her  she  was  so  hungry  that,  if  she  could 


-^  187  8«- 

not  get  a  supper,  she  should  jump  up  and  run  and  rush 
about  and  snatch  something  and  steal,  like  Jo.     She  held 
out  her  hand,  but  only  said : 
"  I  'm  hungry !  " 

7.  A  gentleman  called  her.  He  was  the  gentleman 
who  had  asked,  ^^ What's  the  matter  here?"  He  called 
her  in  behind  his  daily  newspaper  which  was  big  enough 
to  hide  three  of  Mary  Elizabeth,  and  when  he  saw  that 
nobody  was  looking  he  gave  her  a  five-cent  piece  in  a 
hurry,  as  if  he  had  committed  a  sin,  and  quickly  said : 

"  There,  there,  child !  go,  now,  go  !  " 

Then  he  began  to  read  his  newspaper  quite  hard  and 
fast  and  to  look  severe,  as  one  does  who  never  gives  any- 
thing to  beggars,  as  a  matter  of  principle. 

But  nobody  else  gave  anything  to  Mary  Elizabeth.  She 
shuffled  from  one  to  another  hopelessly.  Every  gentle- 
man shook  his  head.  One  called  for  a  waiter  to  put  her 
out.     This  frightened  her  and  she  stood  still. 

8.  Over  by  a  window,  in  a  lonely  corner  of  the  great 
room,  a  young  man  was  sitting,  apart  from  the  others. 
He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  face  buried 
in  his  arms.  He  was  a  well-dressed  young  man,  with 
brown,  curling  hair. 

Mary  Elizabeth  wondered  why  he  looked  so  miserable 
and  why  he  sat  alone.  She  thought,  perhaps,  if  he 
weren't  so  happy  as  the  other  gentlemen,  he  would  be 


-^  188  8«- 

more  sorry  for  cold  and  hungry  girls.     She   hesitated, 
then  walked  along  and  directly  up  to  him. 

9.  One  or  two  gentlemen  laid  down  their  papers  and 
watched  this;  they  smiled  and  nodded  at  each  other. 
The  child  did  not  see  them,  to  wonder  why.  She  went 
up  and  put  her  hand  upon  the  young  man's  arm. 

He  started.  The  brown,  curly  head  lifted  itself  from 
the  shelter  of  his  arms ;  a  young  face  looked  sharply  at 
the  beggar  girl,  —  a  beautiful  young  face  it  might  have 
been. 

It  was  haggard  now  and  dreadful  to  look  at,  —  bloated 
and  badly  marked  with  the  unmistakable  marks  of  a 
wicked  week's  debauch.     He  roughly  said: 

^^Whatdoyou  want?'' 

"I'm  hungry,"  said  Mary  Elizabeth. 

"  I  can't  help  that.     Go  away." 

"  I  have  n't  had  anything  to  eat  for  a  whole  day  —  a 
whole  day !  "  repeated  the  child. 

10.  Her  lip  quivered.  But  she  spoke  distinctly.  Her 
voice  sounded  through  the  room.  One  gentleman  after 
another  had  laid  down  his  paper  or  his  pipe.  Several 
were  watching  this  little  scene. 

"  Go  away ! "  repeated  the  young  man  irritably.  "  Don't 
bother  me.    /have  n't  had  anything  to  eat  for  three  days ! " 

His  face  went  down  into  his  arms  again.  Mary  Eliza- 
beth stood  staring  at  the  brown,  curling  hair.     She  stood 


^  189  B«^ 

perfectly  still  for  some  moments.  She  evidently  was 
greatly  puzzled.  She  walked  away  a  little  distance,  then 
stopped  and  thought  it  over. 

And  now  paper  after  paper  and  pipe  after  cigar  went 
down.  Every  gentleman  in  the  room  began  to  look  on. 
The  young  man  with  the  beautiful  brown  curls  and 
dissipated,  disgraced,  and  hidden  face  was  not  stiller  than 
the  rest. 

The  little  figure  in  the  pink  calico  and  the  red  shawl 
and  big  rubbers  stood  for  a  moment  silent  among  them 
all.  The  waiter  came  to  take  her  out,  but  the  gentlemen 
motioned  him  away. 

11.  Mary  Elizabeth  turned  her  five-cent  piece  over  and 
over  slowly  in  her  purple  hand.  Her  hand  shook.  The 
tears  came.  The  smell  of  the  dinner  from  the  dining- 
room  grew  savory  and  strong.  The  child  put  the  piece 
of  money  to  her  lips  as  if  she  could  have  eaten  it,  then 
turned  and,  without  further  hesitation,  went  back. 

She  touched  the  young  man  —  on  the  bright  hair  this 
time  —  with  her  trembling  little  hand. 

The  room  was  so  still  now  that  what  she  said  rang  out 
to  the  corridor,  where  the  waiters  stood,  with  the  clerk 
behind  looking  over  the  desk  to  see. 

''  I  'm  sorry  you  are  so  hungry.  If  you  have  n't  had 
anything  for  three  days,  you  must  be  hungrier  than  me. 
I  Ve  got  five  cents.     A  gentleman  gave  it  to  me.     I  wish 


^  190  3«- 


MARY    ELIZABETH'S    GENEROUS     DEED 


you  would  take  it.  I've  only  gone  one  day.  You  can 
get  some  supper  with  it,  and  —  maybe  —  I  —  can  get 
some  somewheres  !    I  wish  you  'd  please  to  take  it !  " 

12.  Mary  Elizabeth  stood  quite  still,  holding  out  her 
five-cent  piece.  She  did  not  understand  the  stir  that 
went  all  over  the  bright  room.  She  did  not  see  that  some 
of  the  gentlemen  coughed  and  wiped  their  spectacles. 

She  did  not  know  why  the  brown  curls  before  her  came 
up  with  such  a  start,  nor  why  the  young  man's  wasted 
face  flushed  red  and  hot  with  noble  shame. 

She  did  not  in  the  least  understand  why  he  flung  the 
five-cent  piece  upon  the  table,  and,  snatching  her  in  his 


-»6  191  9^ 

arms,  held  her  fast  and  hid  his  face  on  her  plaid  shawl 
and  sobbed.  Nor  did  she  know  what  could  be  the  reason 
that  nobody  seemed  amused  to  see  this  gentleman  cry. 

The  gentleman  who  had  given  her  the  money  came 
up,  and  some  more  came  up,  and  they  gathered  round, 
and  she  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  they  all  spoke  kindly, 
and  the  young  man  with  the  bad  face  that  might  have 
been  so  beautiful  stood  up,  still  clinging  to  her,  and  said 
aloud : 

''  She  's  shamed  me  before  you  all,  and  she 's  shamed 
me  to  myself !  I  '11  learn  a  lesson  from  this  beggar,  so 
help  me  God!" 

13.  So  then  he  took  the  child  upon  his  knee,  and  the 
gentlemen  came  up  to  listen,  and  the  young  man  asked 
her  what  her  name  was. 

"  Mary  Elizabeth,  sir." 

"  Names  used  to  mean  things  —  in  the  Bible  —  when  I 
was  as  little  as  you.  I  read  the  Bible  then.  Does  Mary 
Elizabeth  mean  angel  of  rebuke  ?" 

^^Sir?" 

"  Where  do  you  live,  Mary  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"Nowhere,  sir." 

"  Where  do  you  sleep  ?  " 

"  In  Mrs.  O'Flynn's  shed,  sir.  It 's  too  cold  for  the 
cows.     She  's  so  kind,  she  lets  us  stay." 

"  Whom  do  you  stay  with  ?  " 


-»8  1 92  8«- 

14.  "Nobody,  only  Jo/' 
"  Is  Jo  your  brother  ?  " 

"  Noj  sir.     Jo  is  a  girl.     I  have  n't  got  only  Jo." 
"  What  does  Jo  do  for  a  living  ?  " 
"She  — gets  it,  sir/' 
"  And  what  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  /  beg.     It 's  better  than  to  —  get  it,  sir,  I  think." 
"  Where  's  your  mother  ?  " 
"Dead." 

"What  did  she  die  of?" 

"  Drink,  sir,"  said  Mary  Elizabeth,  in  her  distinct  and 
gentle  tone. 

"  Ah  —  well.     And  your  father  ?  " 
"  He  is  dead.     He  died  in  prison." 
"  What  sent  him  to  prison  ?  " 
"Drink,  sir." 
"Oh!" 

15.  "  I  had  a  brother  once,"  continued  Mary  Elizabeth, 
who  grew  quite  eloquent  with  so  large  an  audience,  "  but 
he  died,  too." 

"I  do  want  my  supper,"  she  added,  after  a  pause, 
speaking  in  a  whisper,  as  if  to  Jo  or  to  herself,  "and 
Jo  '11  be  wondering  for  me." 

"  Wait,  then,"  said  the  young  man.  "  I  '11  see  if  /  can't 
beg  enough  to  get  you  your  supper." 

"  I  thought  there  must  be  an  extry  one  among  so  many 


folks  1 "  cried  Mary  Elizabeth  ;  for  now,  she  thought,  she 
should  get  back  her  five  cents. 

And,  truly,  the  young  man  put  the  five  cents  into  his 
hat,  to  begin  with.  Then  he  took  out  his  purse,  and  put 
in  something  that  made  less  noise  than  the  five-cent 
piece  and  something  more  and  more  and  more. 

Then  he  passed  around  the  great  room,  walking  still 
unsteadily,  and  the  gentleman  who  gave  the  five  cents 
and  all  the  gentlemen  put  something  into  the  young 
man's  hat. 

16.  So  when  he  came  back  to  the  table  he  emptied 
the  hat  and  counted  the  money,  and,  truly,  it  was  forty 
dollars. 

"  Forty  dollars ! " 

Mary  Elizabeth  looked  frightened. 

"  It 's  yours,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Now  come  to 
supper.  But  see !  this  gentleman  who  gave  you  the 
five-cent  piece  shall  take  care  of  the  money  for  you. 
You  can  trust  him.  He 's  got  a  wife,  too.  But  we  '11 
come  to  supper  now." 


17.  So  the  young  man  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  the 
gentleman  whose  wife  knew  all  about  what  to  do  with 
orphans  took  her  by  the  other  hand,  and  one  or  two 
more  gentlemen  followed,  and  they  all  went  out  into  the 
dining-room,  and   put  Mary  Elizabeth  in  a   chair   at  a 


clean  white  table,  and  asked  her  what  she  wanted  for 
her  supper. 

Mary  Elizabeth  said  that  a  little  dry  toast  and  a  cup 
of  milk  would  do  nicely.  So  all  the  gentlemen  laughed. 
And  she  wondered  why. 

And  the  young  man  with  the  brown  curls  laughed, 
too,  and  began  to  look  quite  happy.  But  he  ordered 
chicken  and  cranberry  sauce  and  mashed  potatoes  and 
celery  and  rolls  and  butter  and  tomatoes  and  an  ice 
cream  and  a  cup  of  tea  and  nuts  and  raisins  and  cake 
and  custard  and  apples  and  grapes. 

18.  And  Mary  Elizabeth  sat  in  her  pink  dress  and  red 
shawl  and  ate  the  whole  ;  and  why  it  did  n't  kill  her 
nobody  knows ;   but  it  did  n't. 

The  young  man  with  the  face  that  might  have  been 
beautiful  —  that  might  yet  be,  one  would  have  thought 
who  had  seen  him  then  —  stood  watching  the  little  girl. 

"  She  's  preached  me  a  better  sermon,"  he  said  below 
his  breath ;  ''  better  than  all  the  ministers  I  ever  heard 
in  all  the  churches.  May  God  bless  her!  I  wish  there 
were  a  thousand  like  her  in  this  selfish  world!  " 

And  when  I  heard  about  it  I  wished  so,  too. 


-«t6  195  B<*^ 


THE  OLD  WAR  HORSE  TELLS  HIS  STORY. 

By  anna  sew  all. 

^^  Black  Beauty  "  is  well  known  to  many  of  the  boys  and  girls. 
It  is  the  story  of  a  horse  and  his  companions  which  has  been 
widely  read^  and  each  reader  becomes  one  of  Black  Beauty's  friends 
before  he  finishes  the  book. 

Mrs.  Sewall  has  studied  animals  until  she  understands  what  they 
would  wish  to  say  if  they  could  talk,  and  her  delightful  story 
makes  us  more  thoughtful  and  kind  to  them. 

The  old  war  horse  was  in  the  stable  with  Black  Beauty  and  told 
him  his  story. 

haiy'6  nets  slmgNter 

1.  Captain  had  been  broken  in  and  trained  for  an  army- 
horse  ;  his  first  owner  was  an  officer  of  cavalry  going  out 
to  the  Crimean  War.  He  said  he  quite  enjoyed  the  train- 
ing with  all  the  other  horses,  trotting  together,  turning 
together  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left,  halting  at  the  word 
of  command,  or  dashing  forward  at  full  speed  at  the  sound 
of  the  trumpet  or  signal  of  the  officer. 

He  was,  when  young,  a  dark,  dappled,  iron  gray,  and 
considered  very  handsome.  His  master,  a  young,  high- 
spirited  gentleman,  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  treated 
him  from  the  first  with  the  greatest  care  and  kindness. 

He  told  me  he  thought  the  life  of  an  army  horse  was 
very  pleasant ;  but  when  it  came  to  being  sent  abroad  over 
the  sea  in  a  great  ship  he  almost  changed  his  mind. 


^  1 96  B(^ 

2.  ^'^That  part  of  it,"  said  he,  ^^was  dreadful!  Of 
course  we  could  not  walk  off  the  land  into  the  ship';  so 
they  were  obliged  to  put  strong  straps  under  our  bodies, 
and  then  we  were  lifted  off  our  legs,  in  spite  of  our  strug- 
gles, and  were  swung  through  the  air  over  the  water  to 
the  deck  of  the  great  vessel. 

"  There  we  were  placed  in  small,  close  stalls,  and  never 
for  a  long  time  saw  the  sky  or  were  able  to  stretch  our 
legs.  The  ship  sometimes  rolled  about  in  high  winds, 
and  we  were  knocked  about  and  felt  bad  enough. 

"However,  at  last  it  came  to  an  end,  and  we  were 
hauled  up  and  swung  over  again  to  the  land;  we  were 
very  glad  and  snorted  and  neighed  for  joy  when  we 
once  more  felt  firm  ground  under  our  feet. 

3.  "  We  soon  found  that  the  country  we  had  come  to 
was  very  different  from  our  own  and  that  we  had  many 
hardships  to  endure  besides  the  fighting ;  but  many  of  the 
men  were  so  fond  of  their  horses  that  they  did  everything 
they  could  to  make  them  comfortable,  in  spite  of  snow, 
wet,  and  all  things  out  of  order." 

"But  what  about  the  fighting?"  said  I.  "Was  not 
that  worse  than  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  hardly  know.  We  always  liked  to 
hear  the  trumpet  sound  and  to  be  called  out,  and  were 
impatient  to  start  off,  though  sometimes  we  had  to  stand 
for   hours,   waiting   for  the  word  of   command.     When 


-»9  1 97  8«- 

the  word  was  given  we  used  to  spring  forward  as  gayly 
and  eagerly  as  if  there  were  no  cannon  balls,  bayonets,  or 
bullets. 

"  I  believe  so  long  as  we  felt  our  rider  firm  in  the 
saddle  and  his  hand  steady  on  the  bridle  not  one  of  us 
gave  way  to  fear,  not  even  when  the  terrible  bombshells 
whirled  through  the  air  and  burst  into  a  thousand 
pieces. 

4.  "  I,  with  my  noble  master,  went  into  many  actions 
together  without  a  wound ;  and,  though  I  saw  horses  shot 
down  with  bullets,  pierced  through  with  lances,  and 
gashed  with  fearful  saber  cuts,  though  we  left  them  dead 
on  the  field  or  dying  in  the  agony  of  their  wounds,  I 
don't  think  I  feared  for  myself. 

'^  My  master's  cheery  voice,  as  he  encouraged  his  men, 
made  me  feel  as  if  he  and  I  could  not  be  killed.  I  had 
such  perfect  trust  in  him  that  whilst  he  was  guiding 
me  I  was  ready  to  charge  up  to  the  very  cannon's  mouth. 

"  I  saw  many  brave  men  cut  down,  many  fall  mortally 
wounded  from  their  saddles.  I  had  heard  the  cries  and 
groans  of  the  dying,  and  frequently  had  to  turn  aside 
to  avoid  trampling  on  a  wounded  man  or  horse;  but 
until  one  dread^l  day  I  had  never  felt  terror.  That 
day  I  "shall  never  forget." 

5.  Here  old  Captain  paused  for  a  while  and  drew  a  long 
breath ;  I  waited,  and  he  went  on. 


-«  198  8«- 

"It  was  one  autumn  morning,  and,  as  usual,  an  hour 
before  daybreak  our  cavalry  had  turned  out,  ready  for  the 
day's  work,  whether  it  might  be  fighting  or  waiting.  The 
men  stood  by  their  horses  waiting,  ready  for  orders. 

"  As  the  light  increased  there  seemed  to  be  some  ex- 
citement among  the  officers ;  and  before  the  day  was  well 
begun  we  heard  the  firing  of  the  enemy's  guns. 

"  Then  one  of  the  ofiicers  rode  up  and  gave  the  word 
for  the  men  to  mount.  In  a  second  every  man  was  in 
his  saddle  and  every  horse  stood  expecting  the  touch  of 
the  rein  or  the  pressure  of  his  rider's  heels,  all  animated, 
all  eager. 

"We  had  been  trained  so  well  that,  except  by  the 
champing  of  our  bits  and  the  restive  tossing  of  our  heads 
from  time  to  time,  it  could  not  be  said  that  we  stirred. 

6.  "My  dear  master  and  I  were  at  the  head  of  the 
line,  and,  as  all  sat  motionless  and  watchful,  he  said, '  We 
shall  have  a  day  of  it  to-day,  my  beauty ;  but  we  '11  do 
our  duty  as  we  have  done.'  He  stroked  my  neck  that 
morning  more,  I  think,  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  — 
quietly,  on  and  on,  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  something 
else. 

"I  loved  to  feel  his  hand  on  my  neck  and  arched 
my  crest  proudly  and  happily ;  but  I  stood  very  still,  for 
I  knew  all  his  moods  and  when  he  liked  me  to  be  quiet 
and  when  gay. 


-»8  199  8«- 

"  I  cannot  tell  all  that  happened  on  that  day,  but  I  will 
tell  of  the  last  charge  that  we  made  together.  It  was 
across  a  valley  right  in  front  of  the  enemy's  cannon.  By 
this  time  we  were  well  used  to  the  roar  of  heavy  guns, 
the  rattle  of  musket  fire,  and  the  flying  of  shot  near  us ; 
but  never  had  I  been  under  such  a  fire  as  we  rode  through 
on  that  day. 

7.  "  From  the  right,  from  the  left,  and  from  the  front 
shot  and  shell  poured  in  upon  us.  Many  a  brave  man  went 
down,  many  a  horse  fell,  flinging  his  rider  to  the  earth. 

"Many  a  horse  without  a  rider  ran  wildly  out  of 
the  ranks,  then,  terrified  at  being  alone,  with  no  hand  to 
guide  him,  came  pressing  in  amongst  his  old  companions, 
to  gallop  with  them  to  the  charge. 

"  Fearful  as  it  was,  no  one  stopped,  no  one  turned  back. 
Every  moment  the  ranks  were  thinned,  but  as  our  com- 
rades fell  we  closed  in  to  keep  them  together;  and, 
instead  of  being  shaken  in  our  pace,  our  gallop  became 
faster  and  faster  as  we  neared  the  cannon,  all  clouded  in 
white  smoke,  while  the  red  fire  flashed  through  it. 

8.  "  My  master,  my  dear  master,  was  cheering  on  his 
comrades  with  his  right  arm  raised  on  high,  when  one  of 
the  balls,  whizzing  close  to  my  head,  struck  hiiji.  I  felt 
him  stagger  with  the  shock,  though  he  uttered  no  cry. 

"  I  tried  to  check  my  speed,  but  the  sword  dropped  from 
his  right  hand,  the  rein  fell  loose   from  the  left,  and, 


-^  200  8«^ 

sinking  backward  from  the  saddle,  he  fell  to  the  earth. 
The  other  riders  swept  past  us,  and  by  the  force  of  their 
charge  I  was  driven  from  the  spot  where  he  fell. 

"  I  wanted  to  keep  my  place  by  his  side  and  not  leave 
him  under  that  rush  of  horses'  feet,  but  it  was  in  vain ; 
and  now,  without  a  master  or  a  friend,  I  was  alone  on  that 
great  slaughter  ground. 

"Pear  took  hold  on  me,  and  I  trembled  as  I  had 
never  trembled  before ;  and  I,  too,  as  I  had  seen  other 
horses  do,  tried  to  join  in  the  ranks  and  gallop  with  them. 
But  I  was  beaten  off  by  the  swords  of  the  soldiers. 

9.  "  Just  then  a  soldier,  whose  horse  had  been  killed 
under  him,  caught  at  my  bridle  and  mounted  me;  and 
with  this  new  master  I  was  again  going  forward.  But  our 
gallant  company  was  cruelly  overpowered,  and  those  who 
remained  alive  after  the  fierce  fight  for  the  guns,  came 
galloping  back  over  the  same  ground. 

"  Some  of  the  horses  had  been  so  badly  wounded  that 
they  could  scarcely  move  from  the  loss  of  blood ;  other 
noble  creatures  were  trying  on  three  legs  to  drag  them- 
selves along.  After  the  battle  the  wounded  men  were 
brought  in  and  the  dead  were  buried." 

"And  what  about  the  wounded  horses?"  I  said. 
"Were  they  left  to  die?" 

"  No ;  the  army  farriers  went  over  the  field  with  their 
pistols  and  shot  all  that  were  ruined.    Some  that  had  only 


-♦8  201  8«^ 

slight  wounds  were  brought  back  and  attended  to ;  but  the 
greater  part  of  the  noble,  willing  creatures  that  went  out 
that  morning  never  came  back  !  In  our  stables  there  was 
only  about  one  in  four  that  returned. 

10.  "  I  never  saw  my  dear  master  again.  I  believe  he 
fell  dead  from  the  saddle.  I  never  loved  my  other  master 
so  well.  I  went  into  many  other  engagements,  but  was 
only  once  wounded,  and  then  not  seriously ;  and  when  the 
war  was  over  I  came  back  again  to  England,  as  sound 
and  strong  as  when  I  went  out." 

I  said,  "  I  have  heard  people  talk  about  war  as  if  it  was 
a  very  fine  thing." 

"Ah!"  said  he,  "I  should  think  they  never  saw  it. 
No  doubt  it  is  very  fine  when  there  is  no  enemy,  when  it 
is  just  exercise  and  parade  and  sham  fight.  Yes,  it  is 
very  fine  then ;  but  when  thousands  of  good,  brave  men 
and  horses  are  killed  or  crippled  for  life  it  has  a  very 
different  look." 


-»8  202  3«- 


/     _,.:   ...  % 

''W'- 

^ 

\   - 

/ 

\ 

1 

WASHINGTON   IRVING. 

i  leges 

con  ve?/'an9e 

(a)     " 

1.  Washington  Trying,  one  of  the  most  eminent  of 
American  authors,  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York  in 
the  year  1783.  His  father  came  from  one  of  the  Orkney 
Islands  and  belonged  to  one  of  the  best  and  oldest  Scottish 
families. 

,  During  the  War  of  the  Revolution  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Irving 
were  very  kind  to  the  American  prisoners,  giving  them 
food,  clothes,  and  other  comforts. 

The  Irvings  were  so  deeply  interested  in  the  war  and 
the  struggle  for  liberty  that  they  decided  to  name  their 
boy  Washington,  for  the  great  and  noble  man  who  had 
done  so  much  toward  making   his  country  free.      His 


-i8  203  8<- 

mother  said:  "  Washington's  work  is  ended,  and  the  child 
shall  be  named  for  him."  His  name  was  the  means  of 
his  being  introduced  to  the  Father  of  his  Country  when 
he  came  to  New  York,  then  the  seat  of  the  government. 

2.  A  young  Scotch  maid,  seeing  how  the  President  was 
honored,  followed  him  into  a  shop  and,  pointing  to  the 
boy,  said :  "  Please,  your  honor,  here  's  a  bairn  was  named 
after  you."  Washington  smiled  at  the  little  fellow  and, 
placing  his  hand  upon  the  boy's  head,  gave  him  his 
blessing. 

Washington  Irving  was  sent  to  school  in  his  fourth 
year  to  a  Mrs.  Kilmaster.  He  spent  two  years  there, 
but  learned  very  little.  He  was  then  sent  to  a  school 
taught  by  Benjamin  Romaine,  who  had  been  a  soldier 
in  the  War  of  the  Revolution.  The  boy  cared  little  for 
study,  but  was  very  fond  of  reading. 

3.  When  Irving  was  eleven  years  old,  he  became  deeply 
interested  in  books  of  travel.  "  Sinbad  the  Sailor  "  and 
"Robinson  Crusoe-"  were  the  first  books  of  the  kind 
that  awakened  this  feeling,  and  then  he  came  across  a 
set  of  twenty  volumes  of  voyages  called  "The  World 
Displayed."  This  set  of  books  was  a  mine  of  treasure 
to  the  boy,  and  he  longed  to  visit  other  countries.  He 
explored  every  nook  and  corner  of  his  own  city  and 
spent  his  holidays  in  long  walks  about  the  country. 

He  had  already  shown  a  talent  for  writing,  and  when 


-»8  204  8«- 

he  was  thirteen  years  old,  wrote  a  little  play  which  was 
acted  at  the  house  of  one  of  his  friends. 

4.  Young  Irving  left  school  when  he  was  sixteen. 
His  health  was  poor  and  he  cared  more  for  reading  and 
exploring  than  for  study.  His  two  older  brothers  had 
been  sent  to  Columbia  College,  and  he  wished  in  his 
afterlife  that  he  had  received  the  same  advantages. 

On  leaving  school,  Irving  joined  his  brother  John  who 
was  studying  in  a  law  office.  He  spent  two  years  there, 
but  law  books  were  only  a  small  share  of  his  reading? 
During  this  time  he  made  his  first  voyage  up  the  Hudson. 
There  were  no  steamboats  in  those  days,  and  he  sailed  on 
board  a  sloop. 

5.  During  this  trip  were  planted  the  seeds  of  future 
writing,  for  it  was  then  that  he  received  his  first  impression 
of  the  Catskill  Mountains,  where  is  laid  the  scene  of  "  Kip 
Van  Winkle  "  and  "  Sleepy  Hollow."  He  says  that  the 
Catskill  Mountains  had  the  most  witching  effect  on  his 
boyish  imagination. 

During  this  visit  to  his  sisters,  who  were  living  in  the 
Hudson  and  Mohawk  Valleys,  Irving  spent  much  time  in 
rambling  about  the  forests  and  along  the  Hudson.  He 
thus  became  familiar  with  the  country,  with  its  legends 
and  old  customs.  Some  of  his  best  tales  owe  their  charm 
to  these  rambles. 

6.  When  Irving  was  nineteen,  he  began  writing  for  a 


-iQ  205  8«*- 

newspaper  published  by  his  brother  Peter.  These  arti- 
cles, signed  "Jonathan  Oldstyle/'  were  filled  with  the 
same  humor  shown  in  his  later  writings  and  were  copied 
extensively  by  other  newspapers. 

The  young  author  was  invited  the  year  following,  in 
1803,  to  join  Judge  Hoffman  and  a  party  on  a  journey  to 
Ogdensburg,  Montreal,  and  Quebec.  He  gladly  accepted 
the  invitation.  They  had  a  very  exciting  trip,  traveling 
in  whatever  conveyance  they  could  find  through  the  wild 
country,  meeting  with  Indians,  sleeping  in  hunters' 
cabins,  and  were  once  unable  to  get  food  for  a  whole 
day. 

7.  The  next  year  Irving' s  health  failed  so  rapidly  that 
his  two  brothers  sent  him  to  Europe,  and  he  sailed  for 
France  the  19th  of  May,  1804.  The  captain  as  he  saw 
him  helped  on  board  thought  he  would  never  reach  his 
journey's  end. 

He  was  very  heavy-hearted  as  the  boat  sailed  away; 
but  the  sea  air  and  the  thought  of  the  new  scenes  before 
him  cheered  him,  and  he  began  to  gain  strength.  At  the 
end  of  the  voyage,  which  was  six  weeks  long,  he  was 
quite  able  to  climb  the  mast.  Imagine  his  feelings  as  his 
vessel  entered  the  port  and  he  saw  the  land  of  which  he 
had  so  often  dreamed. 

8.  After  two  years  abroad,  Irving  returned  to  New 
York  and  became  a  lawyer.     There  was  much  to  make 


-»8  206  8<- 

his  return  happy.     He  was  improved  in  health,  and  the 
little  fame  he  had  gained  was  increased  by  this  trip. 

Washington  and  his  older  brother  William,  together 
with  Mr.  James  K.  Paulding,  ,  started  a  serial  called 
"Salmagundi."  It  was  filled  with  witty  articles  about 
the-  follies  of  the  times  and  was  very  popular  during  its 
year  of  publication. 

9.  Irving's  next  work  was  a  humorous  history  of  New 
York,  which  is  one  of  the  wittiest  books  ever  written. 
Just  before  it  was  finished  he  received  a  blow  that  left 
him  little  heart  for  writing.  Matilda  Hoffman,  who  was 
to  have  been  his  wife,  died  in  her  eighteenth  year.  He 
bravely  went  on  with  his  work,  but  felt  the  loss  so  deeply 
that  he  could  never  bear  to  speak  of  her.  The  dearest 
hope  of  his  life  was  overthrown. 

Irving  was  never  married,  and  after  his  death  there  were 
found  among  his  private  papers  her  picture,  —  a  sweet,  girl- 
ish face,  —  a  braid  of  fair  hair,  her  Bible  and  prayer  book, 
and  these  words  :  "  She  died  in  the  beauty  of  her  youth, 
and  in  my  memory  she  will  ever  be  young  and  beautiful." 

10.  In  1813  Mr.  Irving  edited  a  magazine  in  Phila- 
delphia. The  year  following  he  joined  the  staff  of  General 
Tompkins,  and  the  next  year  he  went  a  second  time  to 
Europe.  After  spending  some  time  in  travel  he  was 
obliged  to  return  to  his  writing  on  account  of  his  brothers' 
failure  in  business. 


■^207  8«- 


SUNNYSIDE,    IRVING'S    HOME 


He  wrote  ^^The  Sketch  Book"  under  the  name  of 
^^ Geoffrey  Crayon"  and  sent  it  to  New  York,  where  it 
was  published.  It  was  afterwards  published  in  London 
through  the  influence  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  read  it 
and  admired  it  greatly. 

This  book  met  with  a  hearty  reception  in  both  coun- 
tries. The  delicate  pathos  and  humor,  the  freshness  of 
feeling,  and  the  refined  and  finished  style  gave  it  a  high 
position  in  the  literary  world. 

11.  This  was  in  1818.  In  1822  he  published  "  Brace- 
bridge  Hall."  This  was  written  in  Paris,  where  the 
author  was  a  companion  of  the  poet  Moore.  It  was  a 
success,  but  not  so  popular  as  "  The  Sketch  Book."     In 


-»8  208  8«- 

December,  1824,  lie  published  "  The  Tales  of  a  Traveler." 
These  were  followed,  in  1828,  by  "  The  History  of  the 
Life  and  Voyages  of  Columbus  "  and  other  works. 

In  1832  he  returned  to  America,  where  he  was  heartily 
welcomed.  Soon  after  his  return  he  made  a  journey  to 
the  country  west  of  the  Mississippi. 

Washington  Irving  was  appointed  minister  to  Spain  in 
1842.  He  lived  there  four  years  and  then  came  home. 
His  last  and  most  elaborate  work  was  "The  Life  of 
Washington,"  in  five  volumes. 

12.  In  1835  Mr.  Irving  had  bought  an  estate  in  Tarry- 
town  on  the  Hudson.  His  brother  Peter  and  others 
of  his  family  lived  there,  and  it  was  in  this  charming 
country  seat  that  Irving  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life. 

He  called  this  home  "  The  Roost,"  but  it  was  re-named 
"  Sunnyside."  The  house  was  originally  a  small  Dutch 
cottage  built  of  stone ;  but  Mr.  Irving  remodeled  and 
enlarged  it  and  planted  ivy  slips  from  Melrose  Abbey 
all  about  it. 

Here,  surrounded  by  loving  relatives,  Washington 
Irving  died  on  the  28th  of  November,  1859.  His  life 
had  been  a  successful  one.  His  bright,  happy  nature 
never  deserted  him,  and  he  kept  his  simple  tastes  and 
sweet  temper  to  the  last. 

He  was  an  artist  in  his  style,  and  his  works  excite  our 
admiration  and  love. 


■4Q  209  Q^ 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

(Abridged.) 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

From  "  The  Sketch  Book." 


Part  I. 


des'ig  nat  ed 
per  se  ver'an^e 
ru'bi  cund 
al  ter'na  tive 


fatigw^d' 
pre^'i  pige 
a  lac'ri  ty 
fa  mil  iar'i  ty 


(y) 


1.  Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must 
remember  the  Catskill  Mountains.  When  the  weather 
is  fair  and  settled  they  are 
clothed  in  blue  and  purple, 
and  print  their  bold  outlines 
on  the  clear  evening  sky; 
but  sometimes,  when  the 
rest  of  the  landscape  is 
cloudless,  they  will  gather  a 
hood  of  gray  vapors  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like 
a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village 


-»8  210  8^ 

whose  shingle  roofs  gleam  among  the  trees.  It  is  a 
little  village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by 
some  of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  times  of  the 
province. 

In  that  same  village  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country  was  yet 
a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natured  fellow 
of  the  name  of  Rip  Yan  Winkle. 

2.  He  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the  good  wives 
of  the  village,  and  the  ghildren,  too,  would  shout  with 
joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told 
them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians. 

Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them  hanging  on  his  skirts  and 
clambering  on  his  back.  Npt  a  dog  would  bark  at  him 
throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  aversion 
to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be  from  the 
want  of  perseverance;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock, 
with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and 
fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should 
not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble. 

3.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for 
hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps  and 
up  hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild 


-»821 1  8«- 

pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor 
even  in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at 
all  country  frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn  or  building 
stone  fences. 

In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's 
business  but  his  own ;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty  and 
keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces ;  his  cow 
would  either  go  astray  or  get  among  the  cabbages;  weeds 
were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere 
else ;  and  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just 
as  he  had  some  outdoor  work  to  do. 

4.  His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if 
they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son.  Rip,  promised  to 
inherit  the  habits  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father. 
He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his 
mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-ofE 
breeches,  which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one 
hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle  if  left  to  himself  would  have  whistled 
life  away  in  perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife  kept 
continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his 
carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his 
family. 

5.  Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who 
was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master;   for  Dame  Yan 


Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and 
even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye  as  the  cause  of 
his  master's  going  so  often  astray. 

The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house,  his  crest  fell,  his 
tail  drooped  to  the  ground  or  curled  between  his  legs. 
He  sneaked  about  casting  many  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Dame  Yan  Winkle,  and  at  the  least  flourish  of  a  broom- 
stick or  ladle  he  would  fly  to  the  door  yelping. 

6.  Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Yan  Winkle. 
For  a  long  while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven 
from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  club  of  idle  person- 
ages of  the  village,  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench 
before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of 
his  majesty  George  the  Third. 

Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the  shade  of  a  long,  lazy  sum- 
mer's day,  talking  listlessly  over  village  gossip  or  telling 
endless,  sleepy  stories  about  nothing. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call  the 
members  all  to  naught. 

7.  Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair, 
and  his  only  alternative  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the 
farm  and  the  clamor  of  his  wife  was  to  take  gun  in 
hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would 
sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  and  share  the 


-^  213  S*^ 

contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympa- 
thized as  a  fellow  sufferer. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine  autumnal 
day,  Rip  had  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of 
the  Catskill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite 
sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had 
echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun. 
Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll  that  crowned  the  brow  of 
a  precipice. 

8.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees  he  could  over- 
look all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  wood- 
land. He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far 
below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with 
the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging 
bark  here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom  and  at 
last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene.  Evening 
was  gradually  advancing ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long,  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys.  He  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village, 
and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  en- 
countering the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

9.  As  he  was  about  to  descend  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance  hallooing,  "  Rip  Yan  Winkle  !  Rip  Yan  Winkle ! " 
At  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back  and,  giving 


-162148*^ 

a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fear- 
fully down  into  the  glen. 

Rip  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  perceived 
a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks  and  bending 
under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  place, 
but,  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in 
need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

10.  On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at 
the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short,  square-built 
old  fellow,  with  thick,  bushy  hair  and  a  grizzled  beard. 
His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion,  —  a  cloth 
jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist,  several  pairs  of  breeches, 
the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of 
buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees. 

He  bore  on  his  shoulders  a  stout  keg  that  seemed 
full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and 
assist  him  with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and 
distrustful  of  this  new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with 
his  usual  alacrity,  and  they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully, 
apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent. 

11.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then  heard 
long,  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to 
issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  toward  which  their  rugged 
path  conducted.  Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came 
to  a  hollow  surrounded  by  precipices. 


-^  215  8*^ 

During  the  whole  time  Eip  and  his  companion  had 
labored  on  in  silence;  for  though  the  former  marveled 
greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of 
liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
strange  about  the  unknown  that  inspired  awe  and  checked 
familiarity. 

12.  On  entering  the  hollow,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  center  was 
a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  ninepins. 
They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint,  outlandish  fashion  ;  some 
wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in 
their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches  of 
similar  style  to  that  of  the  guide's. 

Their  faces,  too,  were  peculiar ;  one  had  a  large  head, 
broad  face,  and  small,  piggish  eyes  ;  the  face  of  another 
seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted 
by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's 
tail.     They  all  had  beards  of  various  shapes  and  colors. 

13.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander. 
He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten 
countenance;  he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and 
hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings,  and 
high-heeled  shoes  with  roses  in  them. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was  that  though 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet 
they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious 


■*»9  216  8«- 

silence,  and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of 
pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed. 

Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the 
noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled, 
echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of 
thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them  they 
stared  at  him  with  such  strange,  uncouth  countenances 
that  his  heart  turned  within  him  and  his  knees  smote 
together. 

14.  His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the 
keg  into  large  flagons  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait 
upon  the  company.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling  ; 
they  drank  the  liquor  in  silence,  and  then  returned  to 
their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  fear  subsided.  He  even 
ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the 
beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  the  flavor  of  excel- 
lent Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was 
soon  tempted  to  repeat  the  draught. 

One  taste  provoked  another,  and  he  repeated  his  visits 
to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his  eyes  swam  in 
his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

Part  II. 

5c  cur'renQ  es  ha  rangi^'mg 

a  ban^doned  ref  u  gee' 

as  sem'blage  c5r  rob'6  rat  ed 

1.  On  waking  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
from  whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  —  it  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning. 
The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes, 
and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft  and  breasting  the  pure 
mountain  breeze. 

"Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I  have  not  slept  here  all 
night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep. 
"Oh,  that  wicked  flagon!"  thought  Kip;  "what  excuse 
shall  I  make  to' Dame  Van  Winkle  ?" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean, 
well-oiled  fowling-piece  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off, 
and  the  stock  worm-eaten. 

He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  jokers  of  the  moun- 
tain had  put  a  trick  upon  him  and,  having  dosed  him 
with  liquor,  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  dis- 
appeared. 


-4Q  218  8^ 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE    WAKING    FROM    HIS    LONG    SLEEP 


-482198*- 

2.  He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  even- 
ing's gambol  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party  to  demand 
his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk, he  found  himself 
stiff  in  the  joints  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity. 

With  some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen.  He 
found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had 
ascended  the  preceding  evening;  but,  to  his  astonishment, 
a  mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it. 

He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  and  at 
length  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs ;  but  no  trace  of  such  opening  remained.  The 
rocks  presented  a  high  wall,  over  which  the  torrent 
came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam.  -  Here,  then, 
poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand. 

3.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  The  morning  was  passing 
away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast. 
He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun ;  he  dreaded 
to  meet  his  wife ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among 
the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the 
rusty  firelock,  and  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and 
anxiety  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  sur- 
prised him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with 
every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of 
a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed. 


-«»9  220  8«- 

They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise, 
and  whenever  they  cast  eyes  upon  him  invariably  stroked 
their  chins.  This  gesture  induced  Rip  to  do  the  same, 
when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had  grown 
a  foot  long ! 

4.  He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A 
troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after 
him  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not 
one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked 
at  him  as  he  passed.     The  very  village  was  altered. 

There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts 
had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors  — 
strange  faces  at  the  windows  —  everything  was  strange. 
His  mind  now  misgave  him  ;  he  began  to  doubt  wfiether 
both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched. 

5.  It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  his  way 
to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe, 
expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay,  —  the 
roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off 
the  hinges. 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 
empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned. 

He  now  hurried  forth  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort, 


-^221  8«^ 

the  village  inn  ;  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large,  rickety 
wooden  building  stood  in  its  place  and  over  the  door  was 
painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle.'* 

Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet 
little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall  pole 
with  something  Dn  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night- 
cap, and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag  on  which  was  a 
singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes. 

6.  He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face 
of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe;  but  even  this  was  singularly  changed. 

The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a 
sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  scepter,  the  head 
was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was 
painted  in  large  characters.  General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folks  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  A  fellow  with  his  pockets 
full  of  handbills  was  haranguing  about  election  —  mem- 
bers of  Congress  —  liberty  —  Bunker  Hill  —  heroes  of 
seventy-six  —  and  other  words  which  were  a  perfect 
jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

7.  The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the  army 
of  women  and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels, 
soon  attracted  attention. 

A  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman  in  a  sharp. 


-^  222  8^ 

cocked  hat  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting 
them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed, 
and,  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  demanded  in 
an  austere  tone,  "what  brought  him  to  the  election 
with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder  and  a  mob  at  his  heels, 
and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village  ?  " 

8.  "  Alas !  gentlemen,"  cried  Kip,  somewhat  dismayed, 
"  I  am  a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a 
loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless  him ! " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders :  "  A 
tory !  a  tory  1  a  spy !  a  refugee  !  hustle  him !  away  with 
him  ! " 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important 
man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order.  Rip  humbly 
assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came 
there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors  who  used  to 
keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well,  who  are  they  ?     Name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "Where's 
Nicholas  Yedder?" 

9.  There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old 
man  replied  in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder? 
Why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years ! " 

"  Where  's  Brom  Butcher  ?  " 

*^  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war ;   some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony 


•*»8  223  8«- 

Point,  others  say  he  was  drowned  in  the  squall  at  the 

foot  of  Antony's  Nose.     I  don't  know  —  he  never  came 

back  again." 

"  Where 's  Yan  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster  ?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too ;   was  a  great  militia 

general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 

10.  Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends  and  finding  himself  thns 
alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by 
treating  of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time  and  of  mat- 
ters which  he  could  not  understand ;  war  —  Congress  — 
Stony  Point — he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more 
friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  anybody  here 
know  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Yan  Winkle ! "  exclaimed  two  or  three. 
"Oh,  to  be  sure  !  that 's  Rip  Yan  Winkle  yonder  leaning 
against  the  tree." 

11.  Rip  looked  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of 
himself  as  he  went  up  the  mountain,  —  apparently  as  lazy 
and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  com- 
pletely confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity  and 
whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst 
of  his  bewilderment  the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded 
who  he  was  and  what  was  his  name.  • 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end  ;  "  I  'm 
not   myself  —  I'm  somebody  else.      I  was   myself   last 


-»6  224  8«- 

night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they  Ve 
changed  my  gun  and  everything's  changed  and  I'm 
changed  and  I  can't  tell  what 's  my  name  or  who  I  am !  " 

12.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely  woman 
passed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray- 
bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms, 
which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry.  "Hush, 
Eip,"  cried  she,  "hush ;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you." 

The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone 
of  her  voice  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his 
mind. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Yan  Winkle ;  it 's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his 
gun  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since.  His  dog  came 
home  without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself  or  was 
carried  away  by  the  Indians  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then 
but  a  little  girl." 

13.  Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put 
it  with  a  faltering  voice  :  — 

"  Where  's  your  mother  ?  " 
"  Oh,  she,  too,  had  died  but  a  short  time  since." 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.     He 
caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.    "I  am 


your  father !  "  cried  he.  "  Young  Rip  Yan  Winkle  once, 
old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now.  Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip 
Van  Winkle  ?  '* 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and, 
peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment^  exclaimed, 
"  Sure  enough !  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle  —  it  is  himself. 
Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor.  Why,  where  have 
you  been  these  twenty  long  years  ?  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years 
had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared 
when  they  heard  it ;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each 
other  and  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks,  and  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  screwed  down  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  and  shook  his  head. 

14.  It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion 
of  old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advanc- 
ing up  the  road.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once  and  cor- 
roborated his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner. 

He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact  handed 
down  from  his  ancestor,  the  historian,  that  the  Catskill 
Mountains  had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings. 

That  it  was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson, 
the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind 
of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years  with  his  crew  of  the 
Half-moon,  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 


-•♦8  226  9**" 

scenes  of  his  enterprise  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon 
the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name. 

That  his  father  had  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch 
dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  the  hollow  of  the  moun- 
tain ;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard  one  summer  after- 
noon the  sound  of  their  balls  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

15.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her, 
and  he  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits. 

He  took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn 
door  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the 
village.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  made  to 
comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place. 

How  there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war  —  that  the 
country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England  —  and 
that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  his  majesty  George  the 
Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States. 

16.  He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that 
arrived  at  the  hotel.  He  was  observed  at  first  to  vary 
on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was  doubtless 
owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awakened.  Some  always 
pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it  and  insisted  that  Rip 
had  been  out  of  his  head. 

The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally 
gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a 
thunder  storm  about  the  Catskill  but  they  say  Hendrick 
Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  ninepins. 


-18  227  8«^ 


POCAHONTAS. 


By  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


One  of  the  most  eminent  novelists  of  our  time  was  William 
M.  Thackeray,  who  was  born  in  Calcutta  in  1811.  His  father  left 
him  a  large  fortune,  which  enabled  the  future  author  to  secure 
an  university  education.  Although  Thackeray's  first  ambition  was 
to  become  an  artist,  he  devoted  him- 
self to  literature  after  the  loss  of  his 
fortune.  He  wrote  for  many  years 
before  he  gained  a  reputation,  but  at 
last  his  great  novels,  "  Pendennis,'' 
"Henry  Esmond,"  and  "The  New- 
comes,''  secured  for  him  the  highest 
rank  among  the  great  masters  of  fic- 
tion. 

No  writer  of  his  time  had  such  a 
command  of  English,  and  his  language 
is  full  of  purity  and  strength. 

Thackeray  had  a  wonderful  insight  into  human  nature.  He  had 
no  patience  for  falsehood  or  wrong  ;  but  there  was  a  world  of  ten- 
derness and  sympathy  in  his  heart. 

Thackeray  was  highly  respected  and  deeply  beloved  for  his  rare 
personal  qualities.  He  died  on  the  morning  of  December  24, 
1863. 


Wearied  arm  and  broken  sword 
Wage  in  vain  the  desperate  fight; 

Round  him  press  a  countless  horde, 
He  is  but  a  single  knight. 


"^0  228  yt* 

Hark  !  a  cry  of  triumph  shrill 
Through  the  wilderness  resounds, 
As,  with  twenty  bleeding  wounds, 

Sinks  the  warrior,  fighting  still. 

Now  they  heap  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  the  torch  of  death  they  light ; 
Ah !  't  is  hard  to  die  by  fire ! 

Who  will  shield  the  captive  knight  ? 
Round  the  stake  with  fiendish  cry 

Wheel  and  dance  the  savage  crowd  ; 

Cold  the  victim's  mien  and  proud, 
And  his  breast  is  bared  to  die. 

Who  will  shield  the  fearless  heart  ? 

Who  avert  the  murderous  blade  ? 
From  the  throng  with  sudden  start, 

See,  there  springs  an  Indian  maid. 
Quick  she  stands  before  the  knight : 

"  Loose  the  chain,  unbind  the  ring ! 

I  am  daughter  of  the  king. 
And  I  claim  the  Indian  right ! " 

Dauntlessly  aside  she  flings 
Lifted  axe  and  thirsty  knife ; 

Fondly  to  his  heart  she  clings. 
And  her  bosom  guards  his  life ! 


-^  229  8<^ 


In  the  woods  of  Powhatan, 
Still  't  is  told  by  Indian  fires 
How  a  daughter  of  their  sires 

Saved  a  captive  Englishman. 


RAIN   IN  THE   GARRET. 


By  DONALD  GRANT  MITCHELL. 


Donald  G.  Mitchell,  widely  known  'by  his  pen-name  of  '^  Ik 
Marvel/'  was  born  in  Norwich,  Conn.,  in  April,  1822.  Not  beiag 
very  robust,  he  was  sent  for  a  few  years  to  his  grandfather's  farm. 
The  farm  life  interested  him  greatly,  and  he  loved  the  country. 
The  breadth  of  a  country  life 
was  a  delight  to  him.  He  says, 
"  In  the  fields  of  God's  planting 
there  is  room.  The  boy  grows 
to  manliness  instead  of  growing 
to  be  like  men." 

In  1841  he  graduated  at  Yale 
College.  Three  years  later  he 
went  to  England,  traveling 
through  every  county  on  foot, 
and  wrote  letters  about  his  trip 
for  the  newspapers. 

On  his  return  he  wrote  a  book 
of  travels.  A  few  years  later  he  went  abroad  again,  and  wrote  a 
second  book  of  travel.  His  most  popular  works  are  "  Dream  Life  " 
and  "  Keveries  of  a  Bachelor." 

In  1853  he  was  sent  as  consul  to  Venice.  He  returned  in  1855 
and  bought  a  beautiful  farm  near  New  Haven,  Conn.,  which  he 
called  Edgewood. 


-^  230  8«- 

There  lie  leads  a  happy  life,  enjoying  his  home  and  writing. 
His  books  are  full  of  beauty  and  grace,  and  the  later  writings  are 
strong,  healthful,  with  a  dash  of  wit  and  fun. 

The  following  selection  is  from  '<  Dream  Life,"  and  is  probably 
one  of  Mr.  Mitchell's  memories  of  the  days  spent  in  the  old 
farmhouse  where  his  grandfather  lived. 

Mr.  Mitchell  wrote  a  book  for  children  called  "  Among  Old  Story 
Tellers,"  which  is  very  interesting. 

pat'ron  iz  mg  mag  nif 'i  9eiit 

mls'ch^e  vous  chiv^al  ry 

4  (8)  ^        -^ 

punch'^ons  ven'ture  some 

1.  It  is  an  old  garret  with  big  brown  rafters,  and  the 
boards  between  are  stained  with  the  rainstorms  of  fifty 
years.  And  as  the  sportive  April  shower  quickens  its 
flood,  it  seems  as  if  its  torrents  would  come  dashing 
through  the  shingles  upon  you  and  upon  your  play.  But 
it  will  not,  for  you  know  that  the  old  roof  is  strong. 

You  love  that  old  garret  roof,  and  you  nestle  down 
under  its  slope  with  a  sense  of  its  protecting  power  that 
no  castle  walls  can  give  to  your  maturer  years. 

It  seems  a  grand  old  place,  and  it  is  capital  fun  to 
search  in  its  corners  and  drag  out  some  bit  of  quaint  old 
furniture  with  a  leg  broken,  and  lay  a  cushion  across  it, 
and  fix  your  reins  upon  the  lion's  claws  of  the  feet,  and 
then  —  gallop  away ! 

And  you  offer  sister  Nelly  a  chance  if  she  will  be 
good  ;   and   throw  out  very  patronizing  words  to  little 


-^  231  9«- 

Charlie,  who  is  mounted  upon  a  much  humbler  horse  — 
as  he  of  right  should  be,  since  he  is  three  years  your 
junior. 

2.  I  know  no  nobler  forage  ground  for  a  romantic, 
venturesome,  mischievous  boy  than  the  garret  of  an  old 
family  mansion  on  a  day  of  storm.  It  is  a  perfect  field  of 
chivalry. 

The  heavy  rafters,  the  dashing  rain,  the  piles  of  spare 
mattresses  to  carouse  upon,  the  big  trunks  to  hide  in, 
the  old  white  coats  and  hats  hanging  in  obscure  corners 
like  ghosts  —  are  great ! 

There  is  great  fun  in  groping  through  a  tall  barrel  of 
books  and  pamphlets,  on  the  lookout  for  startling  pic- 
tures; and  there  are  chestnuts  in  the  garret,  drying, 
which  you  have  discovered  on  a  ledge  of  the  chimney, 
and  you  slide  a  few  into  your  pocket  and  munch  them 
quietly  —  giving  now  and  then  one  to  Nelly  and  begging 
her  to  keep  silent,  for  you  have  a  great  fear  of  its  being 
forbidden  fruit. 

3.  But  you  grow  tired  of  this;  you  tire  even  of  the 
swing  and  of  the  pranks  of  Charlie,  and  you  glide  away 
into  a  comer  with  an  old  dog's-eared  copy  of  "  Robinson 
Crusoe." 

And  you  grow  heart  and  soul  into  the  story,  until 
you  tremble  for  the  poor  fellow  with  his  guns  behind 
the  palisade,  and  are  yourself  half  dead  with  fright  when 


If  A 


% 


A    RAINY    DAY    IN    THE    GARRET 


5f\ 


\ 


you  peep  cautiously  over 
the  hill  with  your  glass  and 
see  the  cannibals  around 
the  fire. 

Yet,  after  all,  you  think 
the  old  fellow  must  have 
had  a  capital  time  with  a 
whole  island  to  himself; 
and  you  think  you  would  like  such  a  time  yourself,  if 
only  Nelly  and  Charlie  could  be  there  with  you. 

But  this  thought  does  not  come  till  afterward ;  for  the 
time  you  are  nothing  but  Crusoe  —  you  are  living  in  his 
cave  with  Poll  the  parrot  and  are  looking  out  for  your 
goats  and  man  Friday. 


4.  You  dream  what  a  nice  thing  it  would  be  for  you  to 
slip  away  some  pleasant  morning  —  not  to  York,  as  young 
Crusoe  did,  but  to  New  York  —  and  take  passage  as  a 
sailor;  and  how,  if  they  knew  you  were  going,  there 
would  be  such  a  world  of  good-byes,  and  how,  if  they 
did  not  know  it,  there  would  be  such  a  world  of  wonder ! 

And  then  the  sailor's  dress  would  be  altogether  such  a 
jaunty  affair,  and  it  would  be  such  rare  sport  to  lie  off 
upon  the  yards  far  aloft,  as  you  have  seen  sailors  in 
pictures  looking  out  upon  the  blue  and  tumbling  sea. 

No  thought  now  in  your  boyish  dreams  of  sleety  storms 
and  cables  stiffened  with  ice  and  crashing  spars  and  great 
icebergs  towering  fearfully  around  you ! 

5.  You  would  have  better  luck  than  even  Crusoe ;  you 
would  save  a  compass  and  a  Bible  and  stores  of  hatchets 
and  the  captain's  dog  and  great  puncheons  of  sweetmeats 
(which  Crusoe  altogether  overlooked);  and  you  would 
save  a  tent  or  two,  which  you  could  set  up  on  the  shore, 
and  an  American  flag  and  a  small  piece  of  cannon,  which 
you  could  fire  as  often  as  you  liked. 

At  night  you  would  sleep  in  a  tree  —  though  you 
wonder  how  Crusoe  did  it  —  and  would  say  the  prayers 
you  had  been  taught  to  say  at  home,  and  fall  to  sleep, 
dreaming  of  Nelly  and  Charlie. 

6.  At  sunrise,  or  thereabouts,  you  would  come  down, 
feeling  very  much  refreshed,  and  make  a  very  nice  break- 


-»8  234  9«- 

fast  off  of  smoked  herring  and  sea-bread  with  a  little 
currant  jam  and  a  few  oranges.  After  this  you  would 
haul  ashore  a  chest  or  two  of  the  sailor's  clothes,  and, 
putting  a  few  large  jackknives  in  your  pocket,  would  take 
a  stroll  over  the  island  and  dig  a  cave  somewhere  and  roll 
in  a  cask  or  two  of  sea-bread. 

And  you  fancy  yourself  growing  after  a  time  very  tall 
and  wearing  a  magnificent  goatskin  cap  trimmed  with 
green  ribbons  and  set  off  with  a  plume.  You  think  you 
would  have  put  a  few  more  guns  in  than  Crusoe  did  and 
charged  them  with  a  little  more  grape. 

7.  After  a  long  while,  you  fancy,  a  ship  would  arrive 
which  would  carry  you  back,  and  you  count  upon  very 
great  surprise  on  the  part  of  your  father  and  little  Nelly 
as  you  march  up  to  the  door  of  the  old  family  mansion 
with  plenty  of  gold  in  your  pocket  and  a  small  bag  of 
cocoanuts  for  Charlie,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasant 
talk  about  your  island  far  away  in  the  south  seas. 

And  so,  with  your  head  upon  your  hand,  in  your  quiet, 
garret  corner,  over  some  such  beguiling  story,  your 
thought  leans  away  from  the  book  into  your  own  dreamy 
cruise  over  the  sea  of  life. 


*jS  235  Qt** 


THE   SEA  VOYAGE. 

By  JOSIAH  gilbert  HOLLAND. 
From  "  Arthur  Bonnicastle."    Copyright,  1882,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

JosiAH  G.  Holland,  widely  known  by  the  pen-name  of 
"Timothy  Titcomb/'  was  born  July,  1819,  in  a  Massachusetts 
village  called  Belchertown.  He  began  life  as  a  doctor,  but  after 
a  few  years  of  practice  gave  up  this 
profession  and  went  to  Vicksburg  as 
superintendent  of  schools. 

From  this  city  he  went  to  Spring- 
field, Mass.,  and  became  an  editor  of 
"The  Springfield  Kepublican.''  He 
wrote  first  for  the  papers,  but  soon 
devoted  more  time  to  general  literary 
work.  He  wrote  a  number  of  novels, 
two  very  popular  poems,  "Bitter  Sweet" 
and  "Kathrina,"  and  several  volumes  of 
essays. 

In  1870  he  became  editor  of  "  Scribner's  Monthly  "  in  New  York. 

Dr.  Holland  was  a  delightful  man  and  made  many  friends.  His 
novels  are  very  interesting  as  stories.  They  contain  many  pictures 
of  village  life,  and  the  thought  and  lessons  taught  by  them  are 
strong  and  helpful.  His  numerous  essays,  first  published  in 
periodicals  and  afterwards  in  book  form,  are  widely  read.  They 
are  full  of  homely  wisdom  and  kindly  advice. 

Dr.  Holland  died  in  1881. 


The  following  selection  is  taken  from  "Arthur  Bonnicastle," 
one  of  Holland's  best  novels. 

Arthur,  the  hero  of  the  book,  was  visiting  a  lady  who  was  very 
fond  of  him.  He  and  Jenks,  the  stable  man,  were  friends, 
although  his  eccentric  hostess  did  not  know  of  their  friendship. 


-^  236  8«- 

hyp'6  CTite  en  cour'ag  Tng  ly 

m  ter  rog'a  tive  ly  du'bi  ous  ly 

1.  After  dinner  I  asked  liberty  to  go  to  the  stable. 
I  was  fond  of  horses  and  all  domestic  animals.  I  made 
my  request  in  the  presence  of  Jenks,  and  that  old  hypo- 
crite had  the  hardihood  to  growl  and  grumble  and  mutter. 
I  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  Don't  mind  Jenks/'  said  Madame. 

Jenks  went  growling  out  of  the  room,  but  as  he  passed 
me  I  caught  the  old  cunning  look  in  his  little  eyes  and 
followed  him.  When  the  door  was  closed  he  cut  a  pigeon- 
wing,  and  ended  by  throwing  one  foot  entirely  over  my 
head. 

Then  he  whispered :  ^'  You  go  out  and  stay  there  until 
I  come.  Don't  disturb  anything."  So  I  went  out,  think- 
ing him  quite  the  queerest  old  fellow  I  had  ever  seen. 

2.  I  passed  half  an  hour  patting  the  horse's  head, 
calling  the  chickens  around  me,  and  wondering  what  the 
plans  of  Jenks  would  be.  At  length  he  appeared.  Walk- 
ing tiptoe  into  the  stable,  he  said :  "  The  old  woman  is 
down  for  a  nap,  and  we  've  got  two  good  hours  for  a 
voyage.     Now,  messmate,  let 's  up  sails  and  be  off !  " 

At  this  he  seized  a  long  rope  which  depended  from  one 
of  the  great  beams  above,  and  pulled  away  with  a  "  Yo  1 
heave,  oh ! "  (letting  it  slide  through  his  hands  at  every 


"•16  237  S**^ 

call),  as  if  an  immense  spread  of  canvas  were  to  be  the 
result. 

"  Belay  there ! "  he  said  at  last,  in  token  that  his  ship 
was  under  way  and  the  voyage  begun. 

"  It 's  a  bit  cold,  my  hearty,  and  now  for  a  turn  on  the 
quarter-deck,"  he  said,  as  he  grasped  my  hand  and 
walked  with  me  back  and  forth  across  the  floor.  I  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  laughter,  but  walked  with  him,  nothing 
loth.  "  Now  we  plow  the  billow,"  said  Jenks ;  "  this  is 
what  I  call  gay." 

3.  After  giving  our  blood  a  jog  and  getting  into  a 
glow,  he  began  to  laugh. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  She  made  me  promise  that  I  would  n't  tease  or  trouble 
you,  she  did!"  and  then  he  laughed  again.  Then  he 
suddenly  sobered,  and  suggested  that  it  was  time  to 
examine  our  chart.  Dropping  my  hand,  he  went  to  a 
bin  of  oats,  built  like  a  desk  and  opening  from  the  top 
with  a  falling  lid. 

Then  he  brought  forth  two  three-legged  milking-stools 
and  placed  them  before  it,  and,  plunging  his  hand  deep 
down  into  the  oats  drew  out  my  atlas  neatly  wrapped 
in  an  old  newspaper.  This  he  opened  before  me,  and 
we  took  our  seats. 

"  Now  where  are  we  ?  "  said  Jenks. 

4.  I  opened  to  the  map  of  the  world,  and  said :  ''  Here 


-^  238  8^ 

is  New  York  and  there  is  Boston.  We  can't  be  very  far 
from  either  of  'em,  but  I  think  we  are  between  'em." 

"Very  well;  let  it  be  between  'em/'  said  Jenks. 
"Now  what?" 

"  Where  will  you  go  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  don't  care  where  I  go ;  let  us  have  a  big  sail  now 
that  we  are  in  for  it/'  he  replied. 

"  Well,  then,  let 's  go  to  Great  Britain,"  I  said. 

"Isn't  there  something  that  they  call  the  English 
Channel  ?  "  inquired  Jenks  with  a  doubtful  look. 

"Yes,  there  is,"  and,  cruising  about  among  the  fine 
type,  I  found  it. 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  this  idea  of  being  out  of  sight  of 
land.  It 's  dangerous,  and  if  you  can't  sleep  there  is  no 
place  to  go  to.  Let 's  steer  straight  for  the  English 
Channel." 

5.  "  But  it  will  take  a  month,"  I  said ;  "  I  have  heard 
people  say  so  a  great  many  times." 

"  My  !  A  month  ?  Out  of  sight  of  land  ?  Hey  de 
diddle !  Very  well,  let  it  be  a  month.  Hullo !  it 's  all 
over !     Here  we  are ;  now  where  are  we  on  the  map  ?  " 

"  We  seem  to  be  pretty  near  to  Paris,"  I  said,  "  but  we 
don't  quite  touch  it.  There  must  be  some  little  places 
along  here  that  are  not  put  down.  There  's  London,  too ; 
that  does  n't  seem  to  be  a  great  way  off,  but  there  's  a 
strip  of  land  between  it  and  the  water." 


-48  239  8«- 

*'Why,  yes,  there's  Paris,"  said  Jenks,  looking  out  of 
the  stable  window  and  down  upon  the  town.  '^  Don't  you 
see  ?  It 's  a  fine  city.  I  think  I  see  just  where  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  lives.  But  it 's  a  wicked  place ;  let 's  get  away 
from  it.  Bear  off  now  " ;  and  so  our  imaginary  bark,  to 
use  Jenks'  large  phrase,  "  swept  up  the  Channel." 

6.  Here  I  suggested  that  we  had  better  take  a  map  of 
Great  Britain,  and  we  should  probably  find  more  places 
to  stop  at.  I  found  it  easily  with  the  "  English  Channel " 
in  large  letters. 

"  Here  we  are  !  "  I  said ;  "  see  the  towns  ! " 

''  My !  Ain't  they  thick !  "  responded  Jenks.  "  What  is 
that  name  running  lengthwise  there  right  through  the 
water?" 

"  That 's  the  '  Strait  of  Dover,'  "  I  replied. 

"  Well,  then,  look  out !  We  're  running  right  into  it ! 
It 's  a  narrow  place,  anyway.  Bear  away  there;  take 
the  middle  course.  I  've  heard  of  the  Straits  of  Dover 
before.  They  are  dangerous ;  but  we  're  through,  we  're 
through.     Now  where  are  we  ?  " 

"  We  are  right  at  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,"  I  replied, 
^^  and  here  is  a  river  that  leads  straight  up  to  London." 

7.  "  Cruise  off !  cruise  off !  "  said  Jenks.  "  We  're  in 
an  enemy's  country.  Sure  enough,  there's  London  ";  and 
he  looked  out  of  the  window  with  a  fixed  gaze  as  if  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  were  as  plainly  in  sight  as  his  own  nose. 


-♦9  240  9«- 

After  satisfying  himself  with  a  survey  of  the  great  city, 
he  remarked  interrogatively,  "  Have  n't  we  had  about 
enough  of  this  ?  I  want  to  go  where  the  spicy  breezes  blow. 
Now  that  we  have  got  our  sea-legs  on  let  us  make  for  the 
equator.    Bring  the  ship  round ;  here  we  go;  now  what?" 

8.  ^^We  have  got  to  cross  the  Tropic  of  Cancer,  for  all 
that  I  can  see,"  said  I. 

"Cant  we  possibly  dodge  it?"  inquired  Jenks,  with 
concern. 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can,"  I  replied.  ''  It  seems  to  go 
clean  around." 

"  What  is  it,  anyway  ?  "  said  he. 

"  It  does  n't  seem  to  be  anything  but  a  sort  of  dotted 
line,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind ;  we  '11  get  along  with  that,"  he 
said  encouragingly.     "  Steer  between  two  dots." 

9.  Here  Jenks  covered  his  mouth  and  nose,  and  held 
them  until  the  danger  was  past.  At  last,  with  a  red  face, 
he  inquired,  '^  Are  we  over  ?  " 

"All  over,"  I  replied;  "now  where  do  you  want  to  go?" 

"  Is  n't  there  something  that  they  call  the  Channel  of 
Mozambique  ?  "  said  Jenks. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,  I  've  always  thought  it  must  be  a  splendid  sheet 
of  water  !  Yes ;  Channel  of  Mozambique  —  splendid  sheet 
of  water !    Mozambique  !    Grand  name,  is  n't  it  ?  " 


-^241  6(^ 

10.  ^^Why,  here  it  is/'  said  I,  ^^away  round  here. 
We  've  got  to  run  down  the  coast  of  Africa  and  around 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  up  into  the  Indian  Ocean. 
Shall  we  touch  anywhere  ?  " 

"  No,  I  reckon  it  is  n't  best.  The  natives  will  think 
we  are  after  'em  and  we  may  get  into  trouble.  But  look 
here,  boy  !  We  've  forgot  the  compasses.  How  we  ever 
managed  to  get  across  the  Atlantic  without  'em  is  more 
than  I  know.  That 's  one  of  the  carelessest  things  I  ever 
did.  I  don't  suppose  we  could  do  it  again  in  trying  a 
thousand  times." 

Thereupon  he  drew  from  a  corner  of  the  oat-bin  an 
old  pair  of  carpenter's  compasses,  between  which  and  the 
mariner's  compass  neither  he  nor  I  knew  the  difference, 
and  said :  "  Now  let  us  sail  by  compasses  in  the  regular 
way." 

"  How  do  you  do  it  ?  "  I  inquired. 

11.  "  There  can't  be  but  one  way,  as  I  see,"  he  replied. 
"  You  put  one  leg  down  on  the  map  where  you  are,  then 
put  the  other  down  where  you  want  to  go  and  just  sail 
for  that  leg." 

^'Well,"  said  I,  ^^'here  we  are,  close  to  the  Canary 
Islands.  Put  one  leg  down  there  and  the  other  down 
here  at  St.  Helena." 

After  considerable  questioning  and  fumbling  and  ad- 
justing of  the  compasses,  they  were  held  in  their  place 


-»»6  242  8«^ 

while  we  drove  for  the  lonely  island.  After  a  considerable 
period  of  silence,  Jenks  broke  out  with:  "Doesn't  she 
cut  the  water  beautiful?" 

"  Here  we  are/'  he  exclaimed  at  last.      "  Now  let 's 
double  over  and  start  again." 


Cfiftiat^jfi 


ARTHUR    AND    JENKS    ON    THEIR    OCEAN    VOYAGE 


12.  So  the  northern  leg  came  round  with  a  half  circle 
and  went  down  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  The  Tropic 
of  Capricorn  proved  less  dangerous  than  the  northern 
corresponding  line,  and  so,  at  last,  sweeping  around  the 
Cape,  we  brought  that  leg  of  the  compasses  which  we  had 
left  behind  toward  the  equator  again,  and,  working  up  on 
the  map,  arrived  at  our  destination. 


-^  243  8«- 

^^  Well,  here  we  are  in  the  Channel  of  Mozambique/'  I 
said. 

"  What 's  that  blue  place  there  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  That 's  the  Island  of  Madagascar." 

"  You  don't  tell  me  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Well !  I  never 
expected  to  be  so  near  that  place.  The  Island  of  Mada- 
gascar !  The  Island  of  Mad-a-gas-car !  Let 's  take  a  look 
at  it." 

13.  Thereupon  he  rose  and  took  a  long  look  out  of  the 
window.  "  Elephants  —  mountains  —  tigers  —  monkeys 
—  golden  sands  —  cannibals/'  he  exclaimed  slowly.  Then 
he  elevated  his  nose  and  began  to  sniff  the  air  as  if  some 
far-off  odor  had  reached  him  on  viewless  wings.  "  Spicy 
breezes,  upon  my  word ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Don't  you 
notice  'em,  boy  ?  Smell  uncommonly  like  hay ;  what  do 
you  think  ?  "  ' 

We  had  after  this  a  long  and  interesting  cruise,  run- 
ning into  various  celebrated  ports  and  gradually  working 
toward  home.  I  was  too  busy  with  the  navigation  to 
join  Jenks  in  his  views  of  the  countries  and  islands  which 
we  passed  on  the  voyage,  but  he  enjoyed  every  league  of 
the  long  and  eventful  sail.  At  last  Jenks  cast  anchor  by 
dropping  a  huge  stone  through  a  trapdoor  in  the  floor. 

14.  "  It  really  seems  good  to  be  at  home  again  and  to 
feel  everything  standing  still,  doesn't  it?"  said  he.     "I 


-«  244.8*- 

wonder  if  I  can  walk  straight/'  he  went  on,  and  then 
proceeded  to  ascertain  by  actual  experiment. 

I  have  laughed  a  hundred  times  since  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  old  fellow's  efforts  to  adapt  himself  to  the 
imaginary  billows  of  the  stable  floor. 

I  enjoyed  the  play  quite  as  well  as  my  companion 
did,  but  even  then  I  did  not  comprehend  that  it  was 
simply  play  with  him.  I  supposed  it  was  a  trick  of  his 
to  learn  something  of  geography  before  cutting  loose  from 
service  and  striking  out  into  the  great  world  by  way  of 
the  ocean.  So  I  said  to  him :  "  What  do  you  do  this 
for?" 

"  What  do  I  do  it  for  ?  What  does  anybody  go  to  sea 
for  ?  "  he  inquired,  with  astonishment. 

"  Well,  but  you  don't  go  to  the  real  sea,  you  know,"  I 
suggested. 

15.  "  Don't  I !  That 's  what  the  atlas  says,  anyway, 
and  the  atlas  ought  to  know,"  said  Jenks.  "  At  any  rate, 
it 's  as  good  a  sea  as  I  want  at  this  time  of  year,  just 
before  winter  comes  on.  If  you  only  think  so,  it's  a 
great  deal  better  sailing  on  an  atlas  than  it  is  sailing  on 
the  water.  You  have  only  to  go  a  few  inches  and  you 
need  n't  get  wet  and  you  can't  drown. 

"  You  can  see  everything  there  is  in  the  world  by  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  and  thinking  you  do ;  and  what 's 
the  use  spending  so  much  time  as  people  do  traveling 


-»8  245  8«- 

to  the  ends  of  the  earth?  If  I  could  only  have  had  a 
real  sail  on  the  ocean  and  got  through  with  it,  I  don't 
know  but  I  should  be  ready  to  die." 

"But  you  will  have  some  time,  you  know,"  I  said 
encouragingly. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  When  you  run  away  you  will,"  I  said. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  responded  dubiously.  "  I  think 
perhaps  I  'd  better  run  away  on  an  atlas  a  few  times  first, 
just  to  learn  the  ropes." 


WILL  0'   THE   MILL.   . 

(Abridged.) 
By  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

Egbert  Louis  Stevenson  was  born  November  30, 1850,  at  Edin 
burgh,  Scotland,  within  sight  of  the  great  Edinburgh  Castle. 

His  father  and  grandfather  were  famous  lighthouse  engineers. 
He  was  proud,  when  a  boy,  to  think  of  his  father  as  the  builder 
of  the  great  sea  lights  along  the  northern  coast  of  Great  Britain. 
He  liked  to  think  of  the  sailors  that  were  watching  far  out  on  the 
ocean  for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  rays  they  flashed. 

Robert  expected  to  follow  the  same  profession  ;  but  he  was  not 
strong,  and  soon  learned  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  become 
an  engineer.  He  was  fond  of  rambling  about  the  wild  Scottish 
coast,  and  often  made  sketches  of  it. 


-♦9  246  8«- 


The  Stevensons  had  a  beautiful  country  home  at  Swanston,  and 
there  he  spent  many  happy  days.     He  was  an  "  awful  laddie  for 

asking  questions,"  said  an  old  Scotch- 
man of  Swanston,  "  and  when  your  back 
is  turned  he  goes  and  writes  it  down." 
He  took  a  course  at  the  University 
of  Edinburgh,  and  later  studied  law, 
but  gave  it  up  because  of  his  ill  health. 
He  was  a  great  reader  and  especially 
fond  of  the  writings  of  Charles  Dickens. 
After  giving  up  law  he  went  to  France, 
where  he  studied  art,  and  there  began 
to  write  for  the  magazines. 

A  large  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in 
traveling.  He  journeyed  through  the  mountains  of  France,  driving 
a  donkey  to  carry  his  camp-kit,  paddled  a  canoe  through  the  canals 
of  Holland,  hunted  and  fished  in  the  Adirondacks,  crossed  America 
with  an  emigrant  train,  and  sailed  among  the  islands  of  the 
Pacific. 

In  1879  he  went  to  California  for  his  health,  and  made  his  home 
in  that  state  for  some  years. 

His  life  so  full  of  adventure  and  his  wonderful  power  and 
genius  as  a  writer  soon  placed  him  among  the  foremost  of  modern 
authors.     One  of  them  calls  him  "  the  dear  king  of  us  all." 

In  1887  he  built  a  beautiful  home  on  the  Island  of  Samoa.  The 
house  was  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  and  as  he  looked  up  from  its 
broad  veranda  he  could  see  the  great  forests,  and  tiny  silver  water- 
falls glistening  among  the  foliage. 

The  dull  roaring  of  the  breakers  as  they  dashed  against  the  coral 
reefs  which  formed  the  island  never  ceased,  and  the  sound  came 
softly  up  to  the  house  a  thousand  feet  from  the  shore. 

And  there,  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  sea,  so  dear  to  him, 
this  great  writer  of  fiction  died  in  December,  1894. 


-»S  247  8«- 

^m'l  neiiQe  m  nti'mer  a  ble 

ba  Youche'  ec'sta  sy 

_/•    (s)  --    -^ 

weir  artifi^cial 

m 

1.  The  mill  where  Will  lived  with  his  adopted  parents 
stood  in  a  falling  valley  between  pine  woods  and  great 
mountains.  A  long  gray  village  lay  some  way  up  like  a 
seam,  or  a  rag  of  vapor  on  a  wooded  hillside ;  and  when 
the  wind  was  favorable  the  sound  of  the  church  bells 
would  drop  down,  thin  and  silvery,  to  Will. 

Below,  the  valley  grew  ever  steeper  and  steeper  and  at 
the  same  time  widened  out  on  either  hand.  From  an 
eminence  beside  the  mill  it  was  possible  to  see  its  whole 
length  and  away  beyond  it  over  a  wide  plain  where  the 
river  turned  and  shone  and  moved  on  from  city  to  city 
on  its  voyage  toward  the  sea. 

2.  It  chanced  that  over  this  valley  there  lay  a  pass 
into  a  neighboring  kingdom.  All  through  the  summer 
traveling  carriages  came  crawling  up  or  went  plunging 
briskly  downward  past  the  mill ;  and,  as  it  happened  that 
the  other  side  was  very  much  easier  of  ascent,  the  path 
was  not  much  frequented  except  by  people  going  in  one 
direction. 

Of  all  the  carriages  that  Will  saw  go  by,  five-sixths 
were  plunging  briskly  downward  and  only  one-sixth 
crawling  up. 


-»6  248  8«- 

Much  more  was  this  the  case  with  foot  passengers. 
All  the  light-footed  tourists,  all  the  peddlers  laden  with 
strange  wares  were  tending  downward,  like  the  river  that 
accompanied  their  path. 

3.  Whither  had  they  all  gone?  Whither  went  all  the 
tourists  and  peddlers  with  strange  wares  ?  Whither  the 
water  of  the  stream,  ever  coursing  downward  and  ever 
renewed  from  above  ? 

Even  the  wind  blew  oftener  down  the  valley,  and 
carried  the  dead  leaves  along  with  it  in  the  fall.  They 
all  went  downward,  fleetly  and  gayly  downward,  and 
only  he,  it  seemed,  remained  behind  like  a  stock  upon 
the  wayside. 

It  sometimes  made  him  glad  when  he  noticed  how  the 
fishes  kept  their  heads  upstream.  They,  at  least,  stood 
faithfully  by  him  while  all  else  were  posting  downward 
to  the  unknown  world. 

4.  One  evening  he  asked  the  miller  where  the  river 
went. 

"  It  goes  down  the  valley,"  answered  he,  "  and  turns  a 
power  of  mills  —  six  score  mills,  they  say  —  and  is  none 
the  wearier  after  all.  And  then  it  goes  out  into  the  low- 
lands and  waters  the  great  corn  country  and  runs  through 
a  sight  of  fine  cities  (so  they  say)  where  kings  live  all 
alone  in  great  palaces,  with  a  sentry  walking  up  and 
down  before  the  door. 


-*»6  249  8*^ 

"  And  it  goes  under  bridges  with  stone  men  upon  them 
looking  down  and  smiling  so  curious  at  the  water,  and 
living  folks  leaning  their  elbows  on  the  wall  and  looking 
over,  too. 

''  And  then  it  goes  on  and  on  and  down  through  marshes 
and  sands,  until  at  last  it  falls  into  the  sea  where  the  ships 
are  that  bring  parrots  and  tobacco  from  the  Indies.  Ay, 
it  has  a  long  trot  before  it  as  it  goes  singing  over  our 
weir,  bless  its  heart !  " 

5.  "  And  what  is  the  sea  ?  "  asked  Will. 

"  The  sea !  "  cried  the  miller.  "  Lord  help  us  all,  it 
is  the  greatest  thing  God  made !  That  is  where  all  the 
water  in  the  world  runs  down  into  a  great  salt  lake. 

"  There  it  lies  as  flat  as  my  hand  and  as  innocent-like  as 
a  child ;  but  they  do  say  when  the  wind  blows  it  gets  up 
into  water  mountains  bigger  than  any  of  ours  and  swal- 
lows down  great  ships  bigger  than  our  mill  and  makes  such 
a  roaring  that  you  can  hear  it  miles  away  upon  the  land." 

From  that  day  forward  Will  was  full  of  new  hopes 
and  longings.  Something  kept  tugging  at  his  heart- 
strings ;  the  running  water  carried  his  desires  along  with 
it  as  he  dreamed,  over  its  fleeting  surface. 

6.  He  spent  long  whiles  on  the  hilltop  looking  down  the 
river  shed  and  abroad  on  the  flat  lowlands,  and  watched 
the  clouds  that  traveled  forth  upon  the  sluggish  wind  and 
trailed  their  purple  shadows  on  the  plain.      He  would 


-»6  250  B«- 

linger  by  the  wayside  and  follow  the  carriages  with  his 
eyes  as  they  rattled  downward  by  the  river. 

It  did  not  matter  what  it  was ;  everything  that  went 
that  way,  were  it  cloud  or  carriage,  bird  or  brown  water 
in  the  stream,  he  felt  his  heart  flow  out  after  it  in  an 
ecstasy  of  longing. 

Bit  by  bit  he  pieced  together  broken  notions  of  the 
world  below :  of  the  river,  ever  moving  and  growing  until 
it  sailed  forth  into  the  majestic  ocean ;  of  the  cities,  full 
of  brisk  and  beautiful  people,  playing  fountains,  bands  of 
music  and  marble  palaces,  and  lighted  up  at  night  from 
end  to  end  with  artificial  stars  of  gold. 

7.  The  true  life,  the  true,  bright  sunshine  lay  far  out 
upon  the  plain.  And,  oh !  to  see  this  sunlight  once  before 
he  died!  to  hear  the  trained  singers  and  sweet  church 
bells  and  see  the  holiday  gardens  1 

"  And  oh,  fish ! "  he  would  cry,  "  if  you  would  only 
turn  your  noses  downstream,  you  could  swim  so  easily 
into  the  fabled  waters  and  see  the  vast  ships  passing  over 
your  head  like  clouds,  and  hear  the  great  water  hills 
making  music  over  you  all  day  long ! " 

But  the  fish  kept  looking  patiently  in  their  own  direc- 
tion, until  Will  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 

8.  A  time  came  at  last  when  this  was  to  be  changed. 
The  miller  turned  the  mill  house  into  a  little  wayside 
inn.     It  now  became  Will's  duty  to  wait  upon  people  as 


-«  251  8«- 

they  sat  to  break  their  fasts  in  the  little  arbor  at  the  top 
of  the  mill  garden ;  and  you  may  be  sure  that  he  kept  his 
ears  open  and  learned  many  new  things  about  the  outside 
world. 

One  day,  when  Will  was  about  sixteen,  a  young  man 
arrived  at  sunset  to  pass  the  night.  He  was  a  contented- 
looking  fellow  with  a  jolly  eye,  and  carried  a  knapsack. 
While  dinner  was  preparing  he  sat  in  the  arbor  to  read  a 
book ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  begun  to  observe  Will,  the 
book  was  laid  aside. 

Will  soon  began  to  take  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in 
his  talk,  which  was  full  of  good  nature  and  good  sense, 
and  at  last  conceived  a  great  respect  for  his  character 
and  wisdom. 

9.  They  sat  far  into  the  night ;  and  Will  opened  his 
heart  to  the  young  man  and  told  him  how  he  longed  to 
leave  the  valley  and  what  bright  hopes  he  had  connected 
with  the  cities  of  the  plain.  The  young  man  whistled 
and  then  broke  into  a  smile. 

"  My  young  friend,"  he  remarked,  "  you  are  a  very 
curious  little  fellow,  to  be  sure,  and  wish  a  great  many 
things  which  you  will  never  get.  Why,  you  would  feel 
quite  ashamed  if  you  knew  how  the  little  fellows  in  these 
fairy  cities  of  yours  are  all  after  the  same  sort  of  non- 
sense and  keep  breaking  their  hearts  to  get  up  into  the 
mountains. 


^  252  8«- 

•  "And,  1^  me  tell  you,  those  who  go  down  into  the 
plains  are  a  very  short  while  there  before  they  heartily 
wish  themselves  back  again.  The  air  is  not  so  light 
nor  so  pure;  nor  is  the  sun  any  brighter.  As  for  the 
beautiful  men  and  women,  you  would  see  many  of  them 
in  rags.'* 

10.  "  You  must  think  me  very  simple/'  answered  Will. 
"  Although  I  have  never  been  out  of  this  valley,  believe 
me,  I  have  used  my  eyes.  I  do  not  expect  to  find  all 
things  right  in  your  cities.  That  is  not  what  troubles 
me.  But  you  would  not  have  me  die  and  not  see  all  that 
is  to  be  seen  and  do  all  that  a  man  can  do  ?  You  would 
not  have  me  spend  all  my  days  between  this  road  here 
and  the  river,  and  not  so  much  as  make  a  motion  to  be 
up  and  live  my  life  ?  " 

"  Thousands  of  people,"  said  the  young  man,  "  live  and 
die  like  you  and  are  none  the  less  happy." 

"  Ah  1 "  said  Will,  "  if  there  are  thousands  who  would 
like,  why  should  not  one  of  them  have  my  place  ?  " 

11.  It  was  quite  dark ;  there  was  a  hanging  lamp  in 
the  arbor  which  lighted  up  the  table  and  the  faces  of  the 
speakers,  and  along  the  arch  the  leaves  upon  the  trellis 
stood  out,  illuminated  against  the  night  sky,  a  pattern  of 
transparent  green  upon  a  dusky  purple. 

The  young  man  rose,  and,  taking  Will  by  the  arm,  led 
him  out  under  the  open  heavens. 


-♦8  253  8<- 

"  Did  you  ever  look  at  the  stars  ?  "  he  asked^  pointing 
upward. 

"  Often  and  often,"  answered  Will. 

"  And  do  you  know  what  they  are  ?  " 

"  I  have  fancied  many  things." 

"They  are  worlds  like  ours/'  said  the  young  man. 
"Some  of  them  less;  many  of  them  a  million  times 
greater ;  and  some  of  the  least  sparkles  that  you  see  are 
not  only  worlds,  but  whole  clusters  of  worlds  turning 
about  each  other  in  the  midst  of  space. 

12.  "We  do  not  know  what  there  may  be  in  any  of 
them, — perhaps  the  answer  to  all  our  difficulties  or 
the  cure  of  all  our  sufferings ;  and  yet  we  can  never 
reach  them.  Not  all  the  skill  of  the  craftiest  of  men 
can  fit  out  a  ship  for  the  nearest  of  these  our  neigh- 
bors, nor  would  the  life  of  the  most  aged  suffice  for 
such  a  journey. 

"  When  a  great  battle  has  been  lost  or  a  dear  friend 
is  dead,  there  they  are  unweariedly  shining  overhead. 
We  may  stand  down  here,  a  whole  army  of  us  together, 
and  shout  until  we  break  our  hearts  and  not  a  whisper 
reaches  them.  We  may  climb  the  highest  mountain  and 
we  are  no  nearer  them." 

Will  hung  his  head  a  little  and  then  raised  it  once 
more  to  heaven.  The  stars  seemed  to  expand  and  emit  a 
sharper   brilliancy;    and,  as   he   kept   turning   his   eyes 


-46  254  8«- 

higher  and  higher,  they  seemed  to  increase  in  multitude 
under  his  gaze. 

13.  One  day  after  dinner  Will  took  a  stroll  among  the 
firs.  He  kept  smiling  to  himself  and  the  landscape  as  he 
went.  The  river  ran  between  the  stepping-stones  with 
a  pretty  wimple;    a  bird  sang  loudly  in  the  wood. 

His  way  took  him  to  the  eminence  which  overlooked 
the  plain ;  and  there  he  sat  down  upon  a  stone  and  fell 
into  deep  and  pleasant  thought. 

The  plain  lay  abroad  with  its  cities  and  silver  river ; 
everything  was  asleep  except  a  great  eddy  of  birds  which 
kept  rising  and  falling  and  going  round  and  round  in  the 
blue  air.  The  river  might  run  forever;  the  birds  fly 
higher  and  higher  till  they  touched  the  stars. 

He  saw  it  was  empty  bustle,  after  all ;  for  here,  with- 
out stirring  a  foot,  waiting  patiently  in  his  own  narrow 
valley,  he  also  had  attained  the  better  sunlight. 


-^255  Bh- 

THE  CLOUD. 

(Abridged.) 
By  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

Perct  Bysshe  Shelley  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  English 
baronet,  and  was  born  in  Sussex,  England,  in  1792. 

He  led  a  somewhat  roving  life,  but  is  said  to  have  been  upright 
and  generous. 

Shelley  is  best  known  through  some  of  his  shorter  poems.  "  The 
Cloud,''  "  To  the  Skylark,"  and  "  The  Sensitive  Plant "  are  filled 
with  pictures  and  overflow  with  beauty  of  thought  and  language. 
The  poet  was  drowned  in  the  Bay  of  Spezzia  in  1822. 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  birds,  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under ; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 


-♦9  256  8«- 

And  all  the  night  't  is  my  pillow  white. 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  skyey  bowers 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder  5 

It  struggles  and  howls  by  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent 

Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 


-»6  257  8^ 


TOM,  THE  WATER  BABY,  MAKES  FRIENDS. 

By  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

A  LITTLE  village,  called  Holnej  in  England,  was  the  early  home 
of  Charles  Kingsley.  His  father  was  the  rector  there,  and  was 
also  somewhat  of  an  artist  and  sports- 
man. Charles  was  like  him,  but  had 
the  force  and  romance  of  his  mother. 

When  Charles  was  eleven  years  old 
the  family  removed  to  Clovelly,  on  the 
coast.  Here  Charles  and  his  brothers 
had  their  boat  and  ponies  and  began 
to  study  natural  history.  In  the  little 
story  of  the  "  Water  Babies,"  from 
which  this  selection  has  been  made, 
he  tells  some  of  the  wonderful  changes 
which  take  place  in  the  water. 

The  rector's  parish  was  largely  made  up  of  fishermen's  familie^ 
and  when  the  fishing  fleets  went  out  to  sea,  Mr.  Kingsley,  his  wife, 
and  the  boys  always  went  to  the  quay  to  hold  a  short  service, 
where  they  all  joined  in  singing  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-first 
psalm.  Kingsley's  poem  of  the  "  Three  Fishers  "  is  a  picture  from 
real  life. 

After  his  education  was  finished,  Charles  became  a  rector  also 
and  went  to  Everly,  which  was  his  home  for  thirty  years.  In 
addition  to  his  parish  work  he  wrote  a  number  of  books  which 
made  him  famous. 

Several  years  were  spent  in  travel,  and,  among  other  places,  he 
visited  America.  The  climate  in  this  country  delighted  him,  and 
he  enjoyed  meeting  Mr.  Longfellow  and  other  literary  men. 

On  his  return  to  England  he  found  much  sickness  among  his 
people,  and  he  overworked  in  caring  for  them.  The  serious  illness 
of  his  wife  was  too  great  a  shock  for  him  in  his  feeble  health,  and 
he  died  in  December,  1874. 


-•e  258  8«- 

ou^sel 

cad'dis 

im'pu  den^e 

undefiM' 

ri  dic'u  loiis 

con'jur  ers 

1.  Tom  was  a  poor  little  chimney  sweep.  He  was 
treated  unkindly  by  his  master  and  was  always  dirty 
and  black.  One  day  when  he  was  very  hungry  and 
thirsty  he  longed  to  go  to  the  river  and  bathe  in  it. 

He  could  hear  it  sing  : 

"  Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool, 
By  laughing  shallow  and  dreaming  pool ; 
Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear. 
By  shining  shingle  and  foaming  weir  ; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ousel  sings. 
And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  church  bell  rings, 
Undefiled  for  the  undefiled. 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child." 

2.  Tom  was  so  hot  and  thirsty  and  longed  so  to  be 
clean  for  once  that  he  tumbled  himself  as  quick  as  he 
could  into  the  clear,  cool  stream. 

He  had  not  been  in  it  two  minutes  before  he  fell  fast 
asleep  —  into  the  quietest,  cosiest  sleep  that  he  had  ever 
had  in  his  life. 

The  reason  for  his  falling  into  such  a  delightful  sleep 
was  that  the  fairies  took  him.  And  now  comes  the  most 
wonderful  part  of  this  story.  When  Tom  awoke  he  found 
himself  swimming  about  in  the  stream.  He  was  about 
four  inches  long. 


3.  In  fact,  the  fairies  had  turned  him  into  a  water 
baby.  He  had  nothing  to  do  now  but  enjoy  himself  and 
look  at  all  the  pretty  things  which  are  to  be  seen  in  the 
cool,  clear  water  world. 

Now,  you  must  know  that  all  the  things  under  the 
water  talk ;  only  not  such  a  language  as  ours,  but  such  as 
horses  and  dogs  and  cows  and  birds  talk  to  each  other. 

And  Tom  soon  learned  to  understand  them  and  to  talk 
to  them,  so  that  he  might  have  had  very  pleasant  com- 
pany if  he  had  only  been  a  good  boy.  But,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  he  was  too  like  some  other  little  boys,  very  fond  of 
hunting  and  tormenting  creatures  for  mere  sport. 

Some  people  say  that  boys  cannot  help  it;  that  it  is 
nature.  But,  whether  it  is  nature  or  not,  little  boys  can 
help  it  and  must  help  it. 

4.  But  Tom  did  not  know  that,  and  he  pecked  and 
jerked  the  poor  water  things  about  sadly,  till  they  were 
all  afraid  of  him  and  got  out  of  his  way  or  crept  into 
their  shells;  so  he  had  no  one  to  speak  to  or  play 
with. 

The  water  fairies,  of  course,  were  very  sorry  to  see 
him  so  unhappy  and  longed  to  tell  him  how  naughty  he 
was  and  teach  him  to  be  good  and  to  play  and  romp 
with  him,  too ;  but  they  had  been  forbidden  to  do  that. 

Tom  had  to  learn  his  lesson  for  himself,  as  many  another 
foolish  person  has  to  do,  though  there  may  be  many  a 


-»9  260  8«- 

kind  heart  yearning  over  him  all  the  while  and  longing 
to  teach  him  what  he  can  only  teach  himself. 

At  last,  one  day,  he  found  a  caddis  and  wanted  it  to 
peep  out  of  its  house ;  but  its  house  door  was  shut.  He 
had  never  seen  a  caddis  with  a  house  door  before,  so  what 
must  he  do  but  pull  it  open  to  see  what  the  poor  lady  was 
doing  inside. 

5.  So  Tom  broke  to  pieces  the  door,  which  was  the 
prettiest  little  grating  of  silk,  stuck  all  over  with  shining 
bits  of  crystal ;  and  when  he  looked  in,  the  caddis  poked 
out  her  head,  and  it  had  turned  into  just  the  shape  of  a 
bird's. 

But  when  Tom  spoke  to  her  she  could  not  answer, 
for  her  mouth  and  face  were  tight  tied  up  in  a  new  night- 
cap of  neat  pink  skin.  However,  if  she  did  n't  answer, 
all  the  other  caddises  did ;  for  they  held  up  their  hands 
and  shrieked,  "  Oh,  you  horrid  boy ;  there  you  are  at  it 
again  1 

"And  she  had  just  laid  herself  up  for  a  fortnight's  sleep, 
and  then  she  would  have  come  out  with  such  beautiful 
wings  and  flown  about  and  laid  such  lots  of  eggs ;  and  now 
you  have  broken  her  door  and  she  can't  mend  it  because 
her  mouth  is  tied  up  for  a  fortnight,  and  she  will  die." 

6.  So  Tom  swam  away.  He  was  very  much  ashamed 
of  himself  and  felt  all  the  naughtier,  as  little  boys  do 
when  they  have  done  wrong  and  won't  say  so. 


-»8  26l  8«- 

Then  he  came  to  a  pool  full  of  little  trout  and  began 
tormenting  them  and  trying  to  catch  them;  but  they 
slipped  through  his  fingers  and  jumped  out  of  the  water 
in  their  fright. 

But  as  Tom  chased  them,  he  came  close  to  a  great 
dark  hover  under  an  alder-root,  and  out  jumped  a  huge 
old  brown  trout  ten  times  as  big  as  he  was  and  ran 
right  against  him  and  knocked  all  the  breath  out  of  his 
body ;  and  I  don't  know  which  was  the  more  frightened 
of  the  two. 

7.  Then  he  went  on,  sulky  and  lonely,  as  he  deserved 
to  be;  and  under  a  bank  he  saw  a  very  ugly  creature 
sitting,  about  half  as  big  as  himself,  which  had  six  legs 
and  a  big  stomach  and  a  most  ridiculous  head  with  two 
great  eyes  and  a  face  just  like  a  donkey's. 

"  Oh,"  said  Tom, ''  you  are  an  ugly  fellow,  to  be  sure ! " 
and  he  began  making  faces  at  him,  and  put  his  nose  close 
to  him  and  halloed  at  him  like  a  very  rude  boy. 

8.  When,  hey  presto  1  all  the  thing's  donkey  face  came 
off  in  a  moment,  and  out  popped  a  long  arm  with  a  pair 
of  pincers  at  the  end  of  it  and  caught  Tom  by  the 
nose.  It  did  not  hurt  him  much,  but  it  held  him  quite 
tight. 

"  Yah,  ah !     Oh,  let  me  go ! "  cried  Tom. 
"  Then  let  me  go,"  said  the  creature.     "  I  want  to  be 
quiet.     T  want  to  split." 


-»8  262  8«- 

Tom  promised  to  let  him  alone  and  he  let  go.  "  Why 
do  you  want  to  split?''  said  Tom. 

"Because  my  brothers  and  sisters  have  all  split  and 
turned  into  beautiful  creatures  with  wings ;  and  I  want 
to  split,  too.  Don't  speak  to  me.  I  am  sure  I  shall  split. 
IwHlsplit!" 

9.  Tom  stood  still  and  watched  him.  And  he  swelled 
himself  and  puffed  and  stretched  himself  out  stiff,  and  at 
last  —  crack,  puff,  bang  —  he  opened  all  down  his  back 
and  then  up  to  the  top  of  his  head. 

And  out  of  his  inside  came  the  most  slender,  elegant, 
soft  creature,  as  soft  and  smooth  as  Tom,  but  very  pale 
and  weak,  like  a  little  child  who  has  been  ill  a  long  time 
in  a  dark  room.  It  moved  its  legs  very  feebly ;  and  then 
it  began  walking  slowly  up  a  grass  stem  to  the  top  of  the 
water. 

Tom  was  so  astonished  that  he  never  said  a  word.  And 
he  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  water,  too,  and  peeped  out  to 
see  what  would  happen. 

10.  And,  as  the  creature  sat  in  the  warm,  bright  sun,  a 
wonderful  change  came  over  it.  It  grew  strong  and  firm ; 
the  most  lovely  colors  began  to  show  on  its  body,  blue 
and  yellow  and  black,  spots  and  bars  and  rings. 

Out  of  its  back  rose  four  great  wings  of  bright  brown 
gauze ;  and  its  eyes  grew  so  large  that  they  filled  all  its 
head  and  shone  like  ten  thousand  diamonds. 


•*|Q  263  8**" 

^'  Oh,  you  beautiful  creature ! ''  said  Tom ;  and  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  catch  it. 

But  the  thing  whirred  up  into  the  air  and  hung  poised 
on  its  wings  a  moment  and  then  settled  down  again  by 
Tom,  quite  fearless. 

11.  "  No !  "  it  said,  "  you  cannot  catch  me.  I  am  a 
dragon  fly  now,  the  king  of  all  the  flies;  and  I  shall 
dance  in  the  sunshine  and  over  the  river  and  catch  gnats 
and  have  a  beautiful  wife  like  myself.  I  know  what  I 
shall  do.  Hurrah ! "  And  he  flew  away  into  the  air  and 
began  catching  gnats. 

"  Oh !  come  back,  come  back,"  cried  Tom,  "  you  beauti- 
ful creature !  I  have  no  one  to  play  with  and  I  am  so 
lonely  here.  If  you  will  but  come  back  I  will  never  try 
to  catch  you." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  you  do  or  not,"  said  the  dragon 
fly,  "for  you  can't.  But  when  I  have  had  my  dinner 
and  looked  a  little  about  this  pretty  place  I  will  come 
back  and  have  a  little  chat  about  all  I  have  seen  in  my 
travels." 

12.  The  dragon  fly  did  come  back  and  chatted  away 
with  Tom.  He  was  a  little  conceited  about  his  fine  colors 
and  his  large  wings ;  but  you  know  he  had  been  a  poor, 
ugly  creature  all  his  life  before,  so  there  were  great 
excuses  for  him. 

He  was  very  fond  of  talking  about  all  the  wonderful 


■48  264  Bt- 

things  he  saw  in  the  trees  and  the  meadows,  and  Tom 
liked  to  listen  to  him.  So  in  a  little  while  they  became 
great  friends. 

And  I  am  very  glad  to  say  that  Tom  learned  such  a 
lesson  that  day  that  he  did  not  torment  creatures  for  a 
long  time  after.  And  then  the  caddises  grew  quite  tame 
and  used  to  tell  him  strange  stories  about  the  way  they 
built  their  houses  and  changed  their  skins  and  turned  at 
last  into  winged  flies ;  till  Tom  began  to  long  to  change 
his  skin  and  have  wings  like  them  some  day. 

13.  And  the  trout  and  he  made  it  up.  So  Tom  used 
to  play  with  them  at  hare  and  hounds,  and  great  fun  they 
had.  And  he  used  to  try  to  leap  out  of  the  water,  head 
over  heels,  as  they  did  before  a  shower  came  on;  but 
somehow  he  never  could  manage  it. 

And  very  often  Tom  caught  the  alder  flies  and  the 
caperers  and  gave  them  to  his  friends  the  trout.  Perhaps 
he  was  not  quite  kind'  to  the  flies ;  but  one  must  do  a 
good  turn  to  one's  friends  when  one  can. 

And  at  last  he  gave  up  catching  even  the  flies,  for  he 
made  acquaintance  with  one  by  accident  and  found  him 
a  very  merry  little  fellow.  This  was  the  way  it  hap- 
pened;  and  it  is  all  quite  true. 

14.  He  was  basking  at  the  top  of  the  water  one  hot 
day  in  July,  feeding  the  trout,  when  he  saw  a  dark  gray 
little  fellow  with  a  brown  head.     He  was  a  very  little 


-*i8  265  8**- 

fellow  indeed ;  but  he  made  the  most  of  himself,  as  people 
ought  to  do. 

Instead  of  getting  away,  the  little  fellow  hopped  upon 
Tom's  finger  and  sat  there  as  bold  as  nine  tailors,  and  he 
cried  out  in  the  tiniest,  shrillest,  squeakiest  little  voice 
you  ever  heard: 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  indeed ;  but  I  don't  want  it  yet." 

"Want  what?"  said  Tom,  quite  taken  back  by  his 
impudence. 

"  Your  leg,  which  you  are  kind  enough  to  hold  out  for 
me  to  sit  on.  I  must  just  go  and  see  after  my  wife  for  a 
few  minutes.  When  I  come  back  I  shall  be  glad  of  it, 
if  you  '11  be  so  good  as  to  keep  it  sticking  out  just  so "  ; 
and  off  he  flew. 

15.  Tom  thought  him  a  very  cool  sort  of  personage; 
and  still  more  so  when  in  five  minutes  he  came  back  and 
said,  "Ah,  you  were  tired  waiting?  Well,  your  other 
leg  will  do  as  well." 

And  he  popped  himself  down  on  Tom's  knee  and  began 
chatting  away  in  his  squeaking  voice. 

"  So  you  live  under  the  water  ?  It 's  a  low  place.  I 
lived  there  for  some  time  and  was  very  shabby  and  dirty. 
But  I  did  n't  choose  that  that  should  last.  So  I  turned 
respectable  and  came  up  to  the  top  and  put  on  this  gray  suit. 
It 's  a  very  business-like  suit,  you  think,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yery  neat  and  quiet,  indeed,"  said  Tom. 


-»9  266  8**- 

"  But  I  'm  tired  of  it,  that 's  the  truth.  I  Ve  done  quite 
enough  business,  I  consider,  in  the  last  week  to  last  me 
my  life.  So  I  shall  put  on  a  ball  dress  and  go  out  and  be 
a  smart  man  and  see  the  gay  world  and  have  a  dance  or 
two.  Why  should  n't  one  be  jolly  if  one  can  ?  And  here 
I  go." 

16.  And  as  he  spoke  he  turned  quite  pale  and  then 
quite  white. 

"  Why,  you  're  ill ! "  said  Tom.     But  he  did  not  answer. 

"You're  dead,"  said  Tom,  looking  at  him  as  he  stood 
on  his  knee,  as  white  as  a  ghost. 

"  No,  I  'm  not ! "  answered  a  little  squeaking  voice  over 
his  head.  "This  is  me  up  here  in  my  ball  dress,  and 
that 's  my  skin.  Ha,  ha !  you  could  not  do  such  a  trick 
as  that ! " 

And  no  more  Tom  could,  nor  all  the  conjurers  in  the 
world.  For  the  little  rogue  had  jumped  out  of  his  own 
skin  and  left  it  standing  on  Tom's  knee,  eyes,  wings, 
legs,  tail,  exactly  as  if  it  had  been-  alive. 

"Ha,  ha!"  he  said,  and  he  jerked  and  skipped  up  and 
down,  never  stopping  an  instant.  "Am  I  not  a  pretty 
fellow  now?" 

17.  And  so  he  was;  for  his  body  was  white  and  his 
tail  orange  and  his  eyes  all  the  colors  of  a  peacock's  tail. 
And,  what  was  the  oddest  of  all,  the  whisks  at  the  end  of 
his  tail  had  grown  five  times  as  long  as  they  were  before. 


-^  267  8«- 

"Ah!"  said  he,  "now  I  will  see  the  gay  world.  My 
living  won't  cost  me  much,  for  I  have  no  mouth,  you  see, 
and  no  inside ;  so  I  can  never  be  hungry  nor  have  the 
stomach-ache  neither." 

No  more  he  had.  He  had  grown  as  dry  and  hard  and 
empty  as  a  quill,  as  such  silly,  shallow-hearted  fellows 
deserve  to  grow. 

18.  But,  instead  of  being  ashamed  of  his  emptiness, 
he  was  quite  proud  of  it,  as  a  good  many  fine  gentlemen 
are,  and  began  flirting  and  flipping  up  and  down  and 
singing : 

"  My  wife  shall  dance  and  I  shall  sing, 
So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
For  I  hold  it  one  of  the  wisest  things 
To  drive  dull  care  away." 

And  he  danced  up  and  down  for  three  days  and  three 
nights  till  he  grew  so  tired  that  he  tumbled  into  the 
water  and  floated  down.  But  what  became  of  him  Tom 
never  knew  and  he  himself  never  minded;  for  Tom 
heard  him  singing  to  the  last  as  he  floated  down : 
«  To  drive  dull  care  away-ay-ay  I " 


-»6  268  9^ 


THE  SUGAR  CAMP. 


By  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 


Charles  Dudley  Warner  is  one  of  our  best-known  American 
writers.  He  was  born  at  Plainfield,  Mass.,  in  September,  1829. 
His  early  home  was  in  the  country,  and  he  delighted  in  outdoor 

life  and  nature.  He  has  given 
his  readers  many  pictures  of  his 
boyhood  days,  as  well  as  of  his 
travels  in  later  years.  There 
is  much  kindly  humor  in  his 
views  of  nature  and  in  his  gar- 
den experiences. 

Mr.  Warner  was  graduated  at 

Hamilton  College  in  1851.    He 

spent   several  years    exploring 

the    West    with    a    surveying 

party,    and   then   studied   law, 

practising  for  several  years  in 

Chicago. 

In  1860  he  went  to  Hartford,  Conn.,  and  is  still  living  there. 

His  home  is  beautifully  located  on  a  hill  near  the  home  of  Mark 

Twain  and  that  of  the  late  Mrs.  Stowe. 

Mr.  Warner  devotes  his  time  to  writing  and  the  study  of  litera- 
ture.    His  essays  and  novels  are  widely  read. 

The  following  piece  is  taken  from  a  well-known  juvenile  book 
by  Mr.  Warner,  entitled  "  Being  a  Boy." 


e  vap^o  rat  ed 
clar'i  fi^d 
crys^tal  lize 


per  pet'u  al  ly 

pe  cul  i^r'i  ty 

^         (y)         -^ 

c6n  gealed! 


-^  269  8«^ 


1.  I  THINK  there  is  no  part  of  farming  the  boy  enjoys 
more  than  the  making  of  maple  sugar  ;  it  is  better  than 
^'  blackberrying  "  and  nearly  as  good  as  fishing. 


In  my  day  maple-sugar-making  used  to  be  something 
between  picnicking  and  being  shipwrecked  on  a  fertile 
island,  where  one  saved  from  the  wreck  tubs  and  augers 
and  great  kettles  and  pork  and  hens'  eggs  and  rye-and- 
indian  bread,  and  began  at  once  to  lead  the  sweetest  life 
in  the  world. 

2.  I  am  told  that  it  is  the  custom  now  to  carefully 
collect  the  sap  and  bring  it  to  the  house,  where  there  are 
built  brick  arches,  over  which  it  is  evaporated  in  shallow 
pans,  and  that  pains  is  taken  to  keep  the  leaves,  sticks, 
and  ashes  and  coals  out  of  it,  and  that  the  sugar  is 
clarified. 

In  short,  that  it  is  a  money-making  business,  in 
which  there  is  very  little  fun,  and  that  the  boy  is  not 
allowed  to  dip  his  paddle  into  the  kettle  of  boiling  sugar 
and  lick  ofE  the  delicious  syrup. 

3.  As  I  remember  the  New  England  boy,  he  used  to 
be  on  the  alert  in  the  spring  for  the  sap  to  begin  running. 
I  think  he  discovered  it  as  soon  as  anybody.  Perhaps  he 
knew  it  by  a  feeling  of  something  starting  in  his  own 
veins,  —  a  sort  of  spring  stir  in  his  legs  and  arms,  which 


-i8  270  8«- 

tempted  him  to  stand  on  his  head  or  throw  a  handspring, 
if  he  could  find  a  spot  of  ground  from  which  the  snow 
had  melted. 

The  sap  stise  early  in  the  legs  of  a  country  boy  and 
shows  itself  in  uneasiness  in  the  toes,  which  get  tired  of 
boots  and  want  to  come  out  and  touch  the  soil  just  as 
soon  as  the  sun  has  warmed  it  a  little. 

4.  The  country  boy  goes  barefoot  just  as  naturally  as 
the  trees  burst  their  buds  which  were  packed  and  var- 
nished over  in  the  fall  to  keep  the  water  and  the  frost 
out. 

Perhaps  the  boy  has  been  out  digging  into  the  maple 
trees  with  his  jackknife  ;  at  any  rate,  he  is  pretty  sure 
to  announce  the  discovery  as  he  comes  running  into  the 
house  in  a  great  state  of  excitement  with  "  Sap 's  runnin' ! " 

And  then,  indeed,  the  stir  and  excitement  begin.  The 
sap-buckets,  which  have  been  stored  in  the  garret  over 
the  woodhouse,  are  brought  down  and  set  out  on  the 
south  side  of  the  house  and  scalded.  The  snow  is  still  a 
foot  or  two  feet  deep  in  the  woods,  and  the  ox-sled  is  got 
out  to  make  a  road  to  the  sugar  camp. 

5.  It  is  a  great  day  when  the  cart  is  loaded  with  the 
buckets  and  the  procession  starts  into  the  woods.  The 
sun  shines  into  the  forest,  for  there  are  only  naked 
branches  to  bar  it,  and  the  snow  is  soft  and  beginning  to 
sink  down,  leaving  the  young  bushes  spindling  up  every- 


-»8  271  8<- 

where.  The  snowbirds  are  twittering  about,  and  the 
noise  of  shouting  and  of  the  blows  of  the  axe  echoes  far 
and  wide. 

In  the  first  place,  the  men  go  about  and  tap  the  trees, 
drive  in  the  spouts,  and  hang  the  buckets  under.  The 
boy  wishes  that  sometime  when  a  hole  is  bored  in  a  tree 
the  sap  would  spout  out  in  a  stream  as  it  does  when  a 
cider  barrel  is  tapped  ;  but  it  never  does,  it  only  drops, 
sometimes  almost  in  a  stream,  but  on  the  whole  slowly. 

6.  Then  the  camp  is  to  be  cleared  of  snow.  The 
shanty  is  recovered  with  boughs.  In  front  of  it  two  great 
logs  are  rolled  nearly  together,  and  a  fire  is  built  between 
them. 

Forked  sticks  are  set  at  each  end,  and  a  long  pole  is 
laid  on  them,  and  on  this  are  hung  the  great  kettles. 
The  huge  hogsheads  are  turned  right  side  up  and  cleaned 
out  to  receive  the  sap  that  is  gathered. 

The  great  fire  that  is  kindled  up  is  never  let  out,  night 
or  day,  as  long  as  the  season  lasts.  Somebody  is  always 
cutting  wood  to  feed  it ;  somebody  is  busy  most  of  the 
time  gathering  in  the  sap;  somebody  is  required  to 
watch  the  kettles  that  they  do  not  boil  over  and  to  fill 
them. 

7.  The  boy  has  his  own  little  sap-yoke  and  small  pails, 
with  which  he  gathers  the  sweet  liquid.  He  has  a  little 
boiling-place  of  his  own  with  small  logs  and  a  tiny  kettle. 


•^  272  8^ 

Tn  the  great  kettles  the  boiling  goes  on  slowly,  and  the 
liquid,  as  it  thickens,  is  dipped  from  one  to  another, 
until  in  the  end  kettle  it  is  reduced  to  syrup  and  is  taken 
out  to  cool  and  settle,  until  enough  is  made  to  "  sugar  off.'* 

To  "  sugar  off "  is  to  boil  the  syrup  until  it  is  thick 
enough  to  crystallize  into  sugar.  This  is  the  grand  event 
and  is  only  done  once  in  two  or  three  days. 

But  the  boy's  desire  is  to  ^^ sugar  off"  perpetually. 
He  boils  his  kettle  down  as  rapidly  as  possible ;  he  is  not 
particular  about  chips,  scum,  or  ashes,  and  he  is  apt  to 
burn  his  sugar. 

8.  If  he  can  get  enough  to  make  a  little  wax  on  the 
snow  or  to  scrape  from  the  bottom  of  the  kettle  with  his 
wooden  paddle  he  is  happy.  A  good  deal  is  wasted  on 
his  hands  and  the  outside  of  his  face  and  on  his  clothes ; 
but  he  does  not  care. 

Sometimes  he  is  left  to  watch  the  boiling  kettles,  with 
a  piece  of  pork  tied  on  the  end  of  a  stick,  which  he  dips 
into  the  boiling  mass  when  it  threatens  to  go  over.  He 
is  constantly  tasting  of  it,  however,  to  see  if  it  is  not 
almost  syrup.  He  has  a  long,  round  stick,  whittled 
smooth  at  one  end,  which  he  uses  for  his  purpose,  at  the 
constant  risk  of  burning  his  tongue. 

The  smoke  blows  in  his  face ;  he  is  grimy  with  ashes. 
He  is  altogether  such  a  mass  of  dirt,  stickiness,  and  sweet- 
ness that  his  own  mother  would  n't  know  him. 


-^  273  8«*- 


9.  He  likes  to  boil  eggs  in  the  hot  sap.  He  likes  to 
roast  potatoes  in  the  ashes,  and  he  would  live  in  the 
camp  day  and  night  if  he  were  permitted.  Some  of 
the  hired  men  sleep  in  the  bough  shanty  and  keep  the 
fire  blazing  all  night. 

To  sleep  there  with  them  and  awake  in  the  night  and 
hear  the  wind  in  the  trees  and  see 


the  sparks  fly  up 

to  the  sky  is  a  perfect  realization  of  all  the  stories  of 

adventures  he  has  ever  read. 

He  tells  the  other  boys  afterwards  that  he  heard  some- 
thing in  the  night  that  sounded  very  much  like  a  bear. 

10.    The  great  occasions  for  the  boy,  though,  are  the 
times  of  "sugaring   off."     Sometimes   this   used   to   be 


-»8  274  B»- 

done  in  the  evening,  and  it  was  made  the  excuse  for  a 
frolic  in  the  camp.  The  neighbors  were  invited ;  some- 
times even  the  pretty  girls  from  the  village,  who  filled 
all  the  woods  with  their  sweet  .voices  and  merry 
laughter. 

The  white  snow  still  lies  on  all  the  ground  except  the 
warm  spot  about  the  camp.  The  tree  branches  all  show 
distinctly  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  which  sends  its  ruddy 
glare  far  into  the  darkness  and  lights  up  the  bough 
shanty,  the  hogsheads,  the  buckets  on  the  trees,  and  the 
group  about  the  boiling  kettles,  until  the  scene  is  like 
something  taken  out  of  a  fairy  play. 

11.  At  these  sugar  parties  every  one  was  expected  to 
eat  as  much  sugar  as  possible ;  and  those  who  are  prac- 
tised in  it  can  eat  a  great  deal.  It  is  a  peculiarity  about 
eating  warm  maple  sugar  that,  though  you  may  eat  so 
much  of  it  one  day  as  to  be  sick,  you  will  want  it  the 
next  day  more  than  ever. 

At  the  "  sugaring-off  "  they  used  to  pour  the  hot  sugar 
upon  the  snow,  where  it  congealed  into  a  sort  of  wax, 
which  I  do  suppose  is  the  most  delicious  substance  that 
was  ever  invented.     And  it  takes  a  great  while  to  eat  it. 

If  one  should  close  his  teeth  firmly  on  a  ball  of  it  he 
would  be  unable  to  open  his  mouth  until  it  dissolved. 
The  sensation  while  it  is  melting  is  very  pleasant,  but 
one  cannot  converse. 


-»6  275  8«- 

12.  The  boy  used  to  make  a  big  lump  of  it  and  give  it 
to  the  dog,  who  seized  it  and  closed  his  jaws  on  it,  as 
dogs  will  on  anything.  It  was  funny  the  next  moment 
to  see  the  expression  of  perfect  surprise  on  the  dog's  face 
when  he  found  that  he  could  not  open  his  jaws. 

He  shook  his  head;  he  sat  down  in  despair;  he  ran 
round  in  a  circle ;  he  dashed  into  the  woods  and  back 
again.  He  did  everything  except  climb  a  tree  and  howl. 
It  would  have  been  such  a  relief  to  him  if  he  could  have 
howled.     But  that  was  the  one  thing  he  could  not  do. 


SPRING. 

By  henry  TIMROD. 


Henry  Timrod,  a  favorite  lyric  poet  of  the  South,  was  a  native 
of  Charleston,  and  died  in  1867,  after  having  endured  ill  health  and 
poverty  brought  about  by  the  ravages  of  the  war.  His  war  lyrics 
and  poems  of  nature  are  marked  by  vigor  and  a  genuine  pathos. 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair  — 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 


-»8  276  8«- 

And  there  's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  winter  in  the  land, 

Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there 's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

* 
At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate. 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start, 

If  from  some  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 

"  Behold  me  !     I  am  May  !  " 


-»8  277  9^ 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

man'u  script  mm^strel  sy  pa  ral'y  sis 

1.  Walter  Scott,  the  great  master  of  fiction,  was 
born  in  the  beautiful  old  city  of  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  in 
the  year  1771.  His  father  was  a  lawyer,  and  Walter  was 
his  third  son.  The  boy  was  strong  and  healthy  as  a  baby, 
but  when  he  was  about  two  years  old  he  lost  the  use  of 
his  right  leg  as  the  result  of  a  fever.  He  was  sent  to 
his  grandfather's  farm  at  Sandy-Know. 

One  of  the  boy's  first  memories  ivas  of  being  wrapped 
in  a  sheep's  skin  and  trying  to  creep  after  a  watch  which 
was  dragged  along  the  floor  by  his  grandfather.  When 
the  day  was  fine  he  was  usually  carried   out   and  laid 


■hQ  278  8^ 

beside  the  old  shepherd  among  the  rocks  where  he  fed 
his  sheep. 

2.  The  free  life  in  the  open  air  and  upon  the  heather- 
covered  hills  gave  him  strength,  and  he  became  a  strong, 
robust  man,  although  he  was  somewhat  lame  all  his  life. 
Scott's  father  and  mother  belonged  to  famous  old  Scottish 
families,  and  many  were  the  tales  of  the  border  life  and 
its  heroes  to  which  the  boy  listened. 

His  mother  had  inspired  him  with  a  fondness  for  poetry, 
and  he  used  to  read  Pope  and  Homer  to  her.  He  was 
much  interested  in  the  old  ballads  of  border  warfare  and 
legends  of  his  own  country,  which  he  soon  knew  by  heart. 

3.  Little  Walter  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time 
up  to  his  eighth  year  at  Sandy-Know  with  his  aunt  and 
grandmother,  who  were  very  fond  of  him.  His  aunt  went 
with  him  one  year  to  Bath,  hoping  the  waters  there 
would  help  him,  and  in  his  eighth  year  he  was  sent 
to  another  famous  shore  resort. 

There  he  met  an  old  soldier  who  had  been  in  all  the 
German  wars,  and  loved  to  tell  the  stories  of  his  battles 
to  the  bright-eyed  boy.  The  War  of  the  Revolution  was 
then  going  on,  and  they  often  talked  about  that. 

It  was  about  that  time  that  General  Burgoyne  sailed 
for  America  with  his  men.  Walter  had  just  been  shown 
a  picture  of  the  American  coast,  and  the  country  looked 
so  rugged  and  had  so  many  lakes  that  he  said  he  did  n't 


■4Q  279  8«- 


'aM3:Min)ini-';o 


ABBOTSFORD,    SCOTT'S    HOME 


believe  the  General  would  succeed.  This  made  the  old 
Captain  very  indignant,  and  after  Burgoyne's  defeat  he 
would  have  little  to  do  with  the  boy. 

4.  When  Walter  was  nine  years  old,  he  returned  to 
Edinburgh  and  entered  the  high  school  there.  He  had 
had  little  preparation,  and  was  backward  in  Latin  and 
Greek.  He  did  his  best  to  make  up  for  his  lameness,  and 
his  playmates  thought  him  a  brave,  fearless  little  fellow, 
who  could  tell  capital  stories. 


-^  280  8«^ 

They  spent  many  a  winter's  evening  around  the  fire- 
place, listening  to  his  stories  and  looking  up  to  him  with 
as  much  admiration  as  if  he  had  been  the  best  football  or 
cricket  player  in  the  school. 

This  was  good  training  for  the  future  novelist,  and  the 
keen-witted  Scotch  laddies,  with  their  eager  faces  glowing 
in  the  ruddy  light  of  the  hearth  fire,  were  no  mean 
critics. 

5.  At  twelve  years  of  age  he  was  sent  to  the  Edinburgh 
University,  where  he  spent  three  years.  Scott's  father 
wished  him  to  become  a  lawyer  like  himself,  so  the  future 
novelist  turned  his  attention  to  the  studies  which  would 
help  in  the  legal  profession.  He  spent  much  of  his  time 
in  reading  stories  of  adventure,  travel,  and  voyages,  and 
soon,  tried  to  imitate  what  he  so  admired. 

After  leaving  college,  he  entered  his  father's  office.  He 
disliked  the  work  there ;  but  his  love  for  his  father  made 
him  wish  to  please  him,  and  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  1792.  He  soon  became  as  famous  for  his  story-telling 
among  the  young  lawyers  as  lie  had  been  among  the 
schoolboys.  There  were  leisure  hours,  and  Scott  was 
able  to  read  many  things  outside  of  his  law  books. 

6.  He  was  greatly  interested  in  old  ballads  and  relics. 
Many  of  the  Scotch  ballads  and  old  war  songs  had 
never  been  printed,  but  were  held  in  the  memories  of  the 
old  peasants.    These  old  Scottish  songs  had  much  strength 


-46  28 1  8«^ 

and  expression,  and  the  airs  to  which  they  were  sung 
were  full  of  weird  music. 

The  young  lawyer  made  many  journeys  among  the 
Scottish  hills,  visiting  the  cabins  of  the  old  Highlanders, 
whose  eyes  would  flash  as  they  poured  forth  the  songs  of 
their  early  days. 

One  of  Scott's  friends,  Mr.  Shortreed,  traveled  with 
him  on  several  of  these  trips.  There  was  no  inn  where 
they  might  stop,  so  the  travelers  went  from  the  shepherd's 
hut  to  the  minister's  manse,  gathering  songs  and  relics. 

7.  "  It  was  in  this  same  season,  I  think,"  says  Mr.  Shori>- 
reed,  "  that  Sir  Walter  got  from  Dr.  Elliot  the  large,  old, 
border  war  horn,  which  you  may  still  see  hanging  in  the 
armory  at  Abbotsford.  How  great  he  was  when  he  was 
made  master  of  that!  I  believe  it  had  been  found  in 
Hermitage  Castle,  and  one  of  the  doctor's  servants  had 
used  it  many  a  day  as  a  grease  horn  for  his  scythe  before 
they  discovered  its  history.  When  cleaned  out  it  was 
never  a  hair  the  worse  —  the  original  chain,  hoop,  and 
mouthpiece  of  steel  were  all  entire. 

"  Sir  Walter  carried  it  home  all  the  way  slung  about 
his  neck  like  Johnny  Gilpin's  bottle,  while  I  was  entrusted 
with  an  ancient  bridle  bit,  which  we  had  likewise  picked 
up." 

8.  Scott's  fancy  for  ballads  led  him  to  study  German, 
that  he  might  read  this  style  of  poetry  in  that  language, 


-^  282  St- 
and his  first  attempt  at  writing  a  poem  was  the  turning 
of  the  German  ballad  "Leonora"  into  English  verse. 
This  he  did  in  a  single  night,  at  the  request  of  a  young 
lady.  When  he  read  it  to  her  at  the  breakfast  table  she 
told  him  that  she  thought  he  was  going  to  be  a  poet. 

He  was  pleased  with  his  own  success,  and  followed  this 
work  with  some  ballads  of  his  own.  In  1802  he  sent  out 
a  book  called  "  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border."  In  the 
meantime  he  had  married  Charlotte  Carpenter,  and  had 
also  been  appointed  a  sheriff,  an  office  with  a  good  salary 
and  light  duties. 

9.  He  was  able  to  continue  his  writing.  His  first  book 
was  followed  by  "  Marmion,"  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake," 
and  other  poems,  each  adding  to  his  fame.  He  was  a 
word  painter,  and  his  writing  was  filled  with  pictures  of 
sunset,  sea,  and  forest ;  but  his  portraits  were  still  truer 
to  life,  and  his  historical  characters  walk  before  the  eyes 
of  his  readers  as  in  the  olden  days. 

In  the  summer  of  1798  Scott  hired  a  pretty  cottage 
at  Laiswade,  about  six  miles  from  Edinburgh,  and  there 
he  and  his  wife  spent  several  happy  summers.  It  was  a 
small  house,  but  there  was  a  garden  which  was  a  great 
source  of  pleasure  to  the  poet. 

He  once  said  that  he  never  was  prouder  of  his  handi- 
work than  after  finishing  a  rustic  archway  at  the  entrance 
of  the  Edinburgh  road.     It  was  here  that  he  began  to 


feel  something  of  his  real  power  and  wrote  some  of  those 
ballads  which  made  his  name  great. 

10.  In    1805    Scott    began    writing    a    novel    called 
"  Waverly."     He  showed  the  first  seven  chapters  to  a 

friend,  who  was  not  pleased  with  it;  so  he  laid  the 
manuscript  aside.  He  afterwards  felt  sure  that  a  High- 
land romance  would  succeed,  and  thought  he  would  com- 
plete it,  but  was  unable  to  find  it. 

Some  years  later,  when  looking  for  some  fishing  taekle 
for  a  friend,  he  came  across  it  in  an  old  desk ;  he  finished 
it,  and  it  was  published  in  1814  without  the  name  of  any 
author,  as  Scott  was  a  little  fearful  that  it  might  not  suc- 
ceed, and  left  it  to  win  its  own  way  in  the  world. 

The  book  soon  attracted  attention,  and  Scott  was  sus- 
pected of  having  written  it.  "Waverly"  was  followed 
by  other  novels,  and  Scott  became  the  popular  author  of 
his  day. 

11.  In  1811  Walter  Scott  bought  a  hundred  acres  of 
moorland,  bleak  and  bare,  on  the  river  Tweed,  near  Mel- 
rose. The  place  was  filled  with  historic  memories,  and 
Scott  planted  it  with  trees  and  flowers.  He  transformed 
the  house  into  a  castle,  with  an  armory,  a  library  of 
poetry  and  history,  and  a  museum;  for  the  relics  of 
ancient  Scotland  were  still  dear  to  him. 

Walter  Scott  had  four  children,  two  girls  and  two  boys. 
They  were  a  constant  delight  to  their  father,  who  took 


-^284  9«- 


SCOTT'S    LIBRARY    AT    ABBOTSFORD 


interest  in  all  their  joys  and  sorrows,  and  they  thought 
no  pleasure  complete  without  his  presence. 

Washington  Irving  visited  Scott  in  1817,  and  wrote 
thus  to  his  brother  Peter : 

''  It  is  a  perfect  picture  to  see  Scott  and  his  household 
assembled  of  an  evening,  —  the  dogs,  stretched  before  the 
fire,  the  cat  perched  on  a  chair,  Mrs.  Scott  and  the  girls 
sewing,  and  Scott  either  reading  out  of  some  old  romance 
or  telling  border  stories.  Our  amusements  were  occasion- 
ally diversified  by  a  border  song  from  Sophia,  who  is  as 
well  versed  in  border  minstrelsy  as  her  father." 


12.  Thus  passed  the  happy  days  at  Abbotsford,  as 
Scott  named  his  home;  and  one  of  Scott's  uncles  said: 
"  God  bless  thee,  Walter,  my  man  !  Thou  hast  risen  to 
be  great;  but  thou  wast  always  good."  In  1821  Scott 
was  made  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Baronet  of  Abbotsford. 

In  the  year  1826  the  firm  in  which  he  had  become  a 
partner  failed.  Scott  gave  his  fortune  toward  paying 
the  creditors,  keeping  Abbotsford  for  his  family,  and  then 
•redoubled  his  efforts  to  pay  what  was  still  owing.  He 
wrote  twenty  novels  in  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life, 
working  constantly  and  refusing  to  receive  aid.  He  was 
offered  the  position  of  poet  laureate,  but  declined  the 
honor,  probably  because  of  the  task  set  before  him. 

13.  This  strain,  together  with  the  death  of  his  beloved 
wife,  was  too  great  for  his  health,  and  brought  on  paral- 
ysis. A  royal  vessel  was  provided  to  take  the  invalid  to 
Italy,  and  he  visited  Malta,  Naples,  and  Rome.  He  had 
finished  his  task  and  paid  the  debt;  but  his  life  work 
was  over. 

He  returned  to  his  dear  home  at  Abbotsford,  and  at 
the  sight  of  its  familiar  scenes  he  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of 
delight.  "I  have  seen  much,"  he  kept  saying  as  they 
wheeled  him  through  the  rooms,  "but  nothing  like  my 
ain  house ;  give  me  one  turn  more." 

14.  It  was  on  a  beautiful  mild  day  in  the  September  of 
1832,  and  in  that  dear  home,  surrounded  by  those  whom 


-»8  286  8«- 

he  loved,  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  breathed  his  last.  He 
was  laid  by  the  side  of  his  wife  at  Dryburgh  Abbey,  in 
the  border  country  his  pen  had  made  famous;  and 
travelers  from  all  parts  of  the  world  visit  his  home  and 
last  resting-place. 

The  city  of  Edinburgh  contains  a  beautiful  monument 
to  his  memory.  There,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  city,  he 
sits  upon  a  marble  throne,  under  a  canopy  of  carven 
stone,  —  a  tribute  to  his  great  genius  and  his  pure,  noble 
character. 


WALTER  RALEIGH  MEETS   QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

Bt  Sm  WALTER  SCOTT. 
From  "  Kenilworth." 

pen'sion  erg  Kege'mSn 

a  gil'i  ty  m  tu'i  tive  ly 

1.  The  royal  barge,  manned  with  the  queen's  water- 
men richly  attired  in  the  regal  liveries,  and  having  the 
banner  of  England  displayed,  lay  at  the  great  stairs 
which  ascended  from  the  river. 

The  yeomen  of  the  guard,  the  tallest  and  most  hand- 
some men  whom  England  could  produce,  guarded  the 
passage  from  the  palace  gate  to  the  riverside,  and  all 


-^287  8^ 

seemed  in  readiness  for  the  queen's  coming  forth,  although 
the  day  was  yet  so  early. 

Walter  Raleigh  caused  the  boat  to  be  pulled  toward  a 
landing-place  at  some  distance  from  the  principal  one, 
which  it  would  not,  at  that  moment,  have  been  thought 
respectful  to  approach,  and  jumped  on  shore,  followed, 
though  with  reluctance,  by  his  cautious  and  timid  com- 
panions. 

As  they  approached  the  gate  of  the  palace,  one  of  the 
sergeant  porters  told  them  they  could  not  at  present 
enter,  as  Her  Majesty  was  in  the  act  of  coming  forth. 

2.  "Nay,  I  told  you  as  much  before,"  said  Blount; 
"  do,  I  pray  you,  my  dear  Walter,  let  us  take  boat  and 
return." 

"Not  till  I  see  the  queen  come  forth,"  returned  the 
youth  composedly. 

"  Thou  art  mad,  stark  mad !  "  answered  Blount. 

"And  thou,"  said  Walter,  "art  turned  coward  of  the 
sudden.  Thou  wouldst  blink  and  go  back  to  shun  the 
frown  of  a  fair  lady ! " 

At  this  moment  the  gates  opened,  and  ushers  began 
to  issue  forth  in  array,  preceded  and  flanked  by  the  band 
of  Gentlemen  Pensioners.  After  this,  amid  a  crowd  of 
lords  and  ladies,  yet  so  disposed  around  her  that  she 
could  see  and  be  seen  on  all  sides,  came  Elizabeth  herself, 
then  in  the  prime  of  womanhood  and  in  the  full  glow  of 


^  288  B«^ 

what  in  a  sovereign  was  called  beauty.    She  leaned  on 
the  arm  of  Lord  Hunsdon. 

3.  The  young  cavalier  had  probably  never  yet  ap- 
proached so  near  the  person  of  his  sovereign,  and  he 
pressed  forward  as  far  as  the  line  of  warders  permitted, 
in  order  to  avail  himself  of  the  present  opportunity. 

His  companion,  on  the  contrary,  kept  pulling  him  back- 
ward, till  Walter  shook  him  ofE  impatiently,  and  let  his 
rich  cloak  drop  carelessly  from  one  shoulder,  —  a  natural 
action  which  served,  however,  to  display  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage his  well-proportioned  person. 

Unbonneting  at  the  same  time,  Raleigh  fixed  his  eager 
gaze  on  the  queen's  approach  with  a  mixture  of  respect- 
ful curiosity  and  modest  yet  ardent  admiration,  which 
suited  so  well  his  fine  features  that  the  warders,  struck 
with  his  rich  attire  and  noble  countenance,  suffered  him 
to  approach  the  ground  over  which  the  queen  was  to 
pass  somewhat  closer  than  was  permitted  to  ordinary 
spectators. 

4.  Thus  the  adventurous  youth  stood  full  in  Elizabeth's 
eye  —  an  eye  never  indifferent  to  the  admiration  which 
she  deservedly  excited  among  her  subjects  or  to  the  fair 
proportions  of  external  form  which  chanced  to  distinguish 
any  of  her  courtiers. 

Accordingly,  she  fixed  her  keen  glance  on  the  youth 
as  she  approached  the  place  where  he  stood,  with  a  look 


-^  289  3«- 


RALEIGH    SPREADS    HIS    CLOAK    FOR    THE    QUEEN    TO    WALK    UPON 


in  which  surprise  at  his  boldness  seemed  to  be  unmingled 
with  resentment,  while  a  trifling  accident  happened  which 
attracted  her  attention  toward  him  yet  more  strongly. 

The  night  had  been  rainy,  and  just  where  the  young 
gentleman  stood,  a  small  quantity  of  mud  interrupted  the 
queen's  passage.  As  she  hesitated  to  pass  on,  the  gallant, 
throwing  his  cloak  from  his  shoulders,  laid  it  on  the 
miry  spot  so  as  to  insure  her  stepping  over  it  dry-shod. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  the  young  man,  who  accompanied 
this  act  of  devoted  courtesy  with  a  profound  reverence 
and  a  blush  that  overspread  his  whole  countenance. 


-^  290  8«^ 

5.  The  queen  was  confused  and  blushed  in  her  turn, 
nodded  her  head,  hastily  passed  on,  and  embarked  in  her 
barge  without  saying  a  word. 

"  Come  along,  Sir  Coxcomb,"  said  Blount ;  "  your  gay 
cloak  will  need  the  brush  to-day,  I  wot." 

"This  cloak,"  said  the  youth,  taking  it  up  and 
folding  it,  ''shall  never  be  brushed  while  in  my  pos- 
session." 

"  And  that  will  not  be  long  if  you  learn  not  a  little 
more  economy." 

6.  Their  discourse  was  here  interrupted  by  one  of  the 
Band  of  Pensioners. 

"  I  was  sent,"  said  he,  after  looking  at  them  attentively, 
''to  a  gentleman  who  hath  no  cloak,  or  a  muddy  one. 
You,  sir,  I  think,"  addressing  the  younger  cavalier,  '^  are 
the  man ;   you  will  please  to  follow  me." 

'^  He  is  in  attendance  on  me,"  said  Blount,  "  on  me, 
the  noble  Earl  of  Sussex's  master  of  horse." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  that,"  answered  the  mes- 
senger ;  "  my  orders  are  directly  from  Her  Majesty  and 
concern  this  gentleman  only." 

So  saying,  he  walked  away,  followed  by  Walter,  leaving 
the  others  behind,  Blount's  eyes  almost  starting  from 
his  head  with  the  excess  of  his  astonishment.  At  length 
he  gave  vent  to  it  in  an  exclamation :  "  Who  would  have 
thought  this  ?"    And,  shaking  his  head  with  a  mysterious 


-«»8  291  8<*- 

air,  he  walked  to  his  own  boat,  embarkedj  and  returned 
to  Deptford. 

7.  The  young  cavalier  was  in  the  meanwhile  guided 
to  the  water  side  by  the  Pensioner,  who  showed  him 
considerable  respect.  He  ushered  him  into  one  of  the 
wherries  which  lay  ready  to  attend  the  queen's  barge, 
which  was  already  proceeding  up  the  river. 

The  two  rowers  used  their  oars  with  such  expedition  at 
the  signal  of  the  Gentleman  Pensioner  that  they  very 
soon  brought  their  little  ski:ff  under  the  stern  of  the 
queen's  boat,  where  she  sat  beneath  an  awning,  attended 
by  two  or  three  ladies  and  the  nobles  of  her  house- 
hold. 

She  looked  more  than  once  at  the  wherry  in  which  the 
young  adventurer  was  seated,  spoke  to  those  around  her, 
a,nd  seemed  to  laugh. 

8.  At  length  one  of  the  attendants,  by  the  queen's 
order  apparently,  made  a  sign  for  the  wherry  to  come 
alongside,  and  the  young  man  was  desired  to  step  from 
his  own  skiff  into  the  queen's  barge,  which  he  performed 
with  graceful  agility  at  the  fore  part  of  the  boat,  and 
was  brought  aft  to  the  queen's  presence,  the  wherry  at 
the  same  time  dropping  into  the  rear. 

The  youth  underwent  the  gaze  of  Her  Majesty  not  the 
less  gracefully  that  his  self-possession  was  mingled  with 
embarrassment.     The  muddied  cloak  still  hung  upon  his 


-48  292  3«^ 

arm  and  formed  the  natural  topic  with  which  the  queen 
introduced  the  conversation. 

9.  "  You  have  this  day  spoiled  a  gay  mantle  in  our 
service,  young  man.  We  thank  you  for  your  service, 
though  the  manner  of  offering  it  was  unusual  and  some- 
thing bold." 

"In  a  sovereign's  need/*  answered  the  youth,  "it  is 
each  liegeman's  duty  to  be  bold." 

"  Indeed,  that  was  well  said,  my  lord,"  said  the  queen, 
turning  to  a  grave  person  who  sat  by  her  and  answered 
with  a  grave  inclination  of  the  head. 

"Well,  young  man,  your  gallantry  shall  not  go  unre- 
warded. Go  to  the  wardrobe  keeper  and  he  shall  have 
orders  to  supply  the  suit  which  you  have  cast  away  in 
our  service.  Thou  shalt  have  a  suit,  and  that  of  the 
newest  cut,  I  promise  thee,  on  the  word  of  a  princess." 

10.  "May  it  please  your  grace,"  said  Walter  hesitalr 
ingly,  "it  is  not  for  so  humble  a  servant  of  Your 
Majesty  to  measure  out  your  bounties  ;  but  if  it  became 
me  to  choose —  " 

"Thou  wouldst  have  gold,  I  warrant  me,"  said  the 
queen,  interrupting  him ;  "  fie,  young  man  !  I  take  shame 
to  say  that  in  our  capital  such  and  so  various  are  the 
means  of  thriftless  folly  that  to  give  gold  to  youth  is 
giving  fuel  to  fire  and  furnishing  them  with  the  means 
of  self-destruction.     If  I  live  and  reign,  these  means  of 


-»8  293  Qh- 

unchristian  excess  shall  be  abridged.  Yet  thou  mayest 
be  poor,"  she  added,  "or  thy  parents  may  be;  it  shall 
be  gold  if  thou  wilt,  but  thou  shalt  answer  to  me  for  the 
use  on  't." 

11.  Walter  waited  patiently  until  the  queen  had  done 
and  then  modestly  assured  her  that  gold  was  still  less  in 
his  wish  than  the  raiment  Her  Majesty  had  before  offered. 

"  How,  boy !  "  said  the  queen,  "  neither  gold  nor  gar- 
ment ?     What  is  it  thou  wouldst  have  of  me,  then  ?  " 

"Only  permission,  madam  —  if  it  is  not  asking  too 
high  an  honor  —  to  wear  the  cloak  which  did  you  this 
trifling  service." 

"  Permission  to  wear  thine  own  cloak,  thou  silly  boy  ?  " 
said  the  queen. 

"  It  is  no  longer  mine,"  said  Walter ;  "  when  Your 
Majesty's  foot  touched  it  it  became  a  fit  mantle  for  a 
prince,  but  far  too  rich  a  one  for  its  former  owner." 

12.  The  queen  again  blushed,  and  endeavored  to  cover 
by  laughing  a  slight  degree  of  not  unpleasing  surprise 
and  confusion. 

"  Heard  you  ever  the  like,  my  lords  ?  The  youth's 
head  is  turned  with  reading  romances.  I  must  know 
something  of  him  that  I  may  send  him  safe  to  his  friends. 
What  art  thou  ?  " 

"  Raleigh  is  my  name,  most  gracious  queen,  the  young- 
est son  of  a  large  but  honorable  family  of  Devonshire." 


-^  294  8«^ 

"Raleigh?"  said  Elizabeth,  after  a  moment's  recol- 
lection; "have  we  not  heard  of  your  service  in  Ireland  ?" 

"  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  do  some  service  there, 
madam,"  replied  Raleigh;  "scarce,  however,  of  conse- 
quence sufficient  to  reach  Your  Grace's  ears." 

13.  "  They  hear  farther  than  you  think  of,"  said  the 
queen  graciously,  "and  have  heard  of  a  youth  who 
defended  a  ford  in  Shannon  against  a  whole  band  of 
rebels  until  the  stream  ran  purple  with  their  blood  and 
his  own." 

"  Some  blood  I  may  have  lost,"  said  the  youth,  looking 
down;  "but  it  was  where  my  best  is  due,  and  that  is  in 
Your  Majesty's  service." 

The  queen  paused  and  then  said  hastily  :  "  You  are 
very  young  to  have  fought  so  well  and  to  speak  so  welL 
So  hark  ye.  Master  Raleigh,  see  thou  fail  not  to  wear  thy 
muddy  cloak  till  our  pleasure  be  further  known.  And 
here,"  she  added,  giving  him  a  jewel  of  gold  in  the  form 
of  a  chessman,  "  I  give  thee  this  to  wear  at  the  collar." 

14.  Raleigh  knelt,  and,  as  he  took  from  her  hand  the 
jewel,  kissed  the  fingers  which  gave  it. 

He  knew  how  to  mingle  the  devotion  claimed  by  the 
queen  with  the  gallantry  due  to  her  personal  beauty.  In 
this,  his  first  attempt  to  unite  them,  he  succeeded  so  well 
as  at  once  to  gratify  Elizabeth's  personal  vanity  and  her 
love  of  power. 


-^  295  8^ 

LINCOLN»S   GETTYSBURG   SPEECH. 

1.  When  Abraham  Lincoln  had  gained  the  people's 
ear,  men  noticed  that  he  scarcely  made  a  speech  or  wrote 
a  state  paper  in  which  there  was  not  an  illustration  or 
a  quotation  from  the  Bible.  He  had  been  thoroughly 
instructed  in  it  by  his  mother. 

It  was  the  one  book  always  found  in  the  pioneer's 
cabin,  and  to  that,  being  a  woman  of  deep  religious  feel- 
ing, she  turned  for  sympathy  and  guidance.  Out  of  it 
she  taught  her  boy  to  spell  and  read,  and  with  its  poetry, 
histories,  and  principles  she  so  familiarized  him  that  they 
always  influenced  his  subsequent  life. 

2.  In  the  good  President's  religious  faith  two  leading 
ideas  were  prominent  from  first  to  last,  —  man's  helpless- 
ness, both  as  to  strength  and  wisdom,  and  God's  help- 
fulness in  both. 

To  a  friend  who  anxiously  asked  him  in  the  dark 
days  of  1862,  "Do  you  think  we  shall  succeed?"  he 
said,  "  I  believe  our  cause  is  just ;  I  believe  that  we 
shall  conquer  in  the  end.  I  should  be  very  glad  to  take 
my  neck  out  of  the  yoke  and  go  back  to  my  old  home 
and  my  old  life  at  Springfield.  But  it  has  pleased 
Almighty  God  to  place  me  in  this  position ;  and,  look- 
ing up  to  Him  for  support,  I  must  discharge  my  destiny 
as  best  I  can." 


-^  296  8«^ 

3.  The  words  of  Lincoln  seemed  to  grow  more  clear  and 
more  remarkable  as  he  approached  the  end.  His  last 
inaugural  was  characterized  by  a  solemn,  religious  tone, 
peculiarly  free  from  earthly  passion.    Listen  to  his  words  : 

"  With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all, 
with  firmness  in  the  right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the 
right,  let  us  strive  on  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in,  to 
bind  up  the  nation's  wounds,  to  care  for  him  who  shall 
have  borne  the  battle  and  for  his  widow  and  orphans, 
to  do  all  which  may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  a 
lasting  peace  among  ourselves  and  with  all  nations." 

4.  Perhaps  in  no  language,  ancient  or  modern,  are  any 
number  of  words  found  more  touching  and  eloquent  than 
his  speech  of  November  19,  1863,  at  the  Gettysburg 
dedication. 

After  Edward  Everett  had  delivered  his  masterly  ora- 
tion. President  Lincoln  rose  and  read  the  following  brief 
address  : 

"Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought 
forth  upon  this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in 
liberty  and  dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are 
created  equal.  We  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war, 
testing  whether  that  nation  —  or  any  nation  so  conceived 
and  so  dedicated  —  can  long  endure. 

5.  "We  are  met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that  war. 
We  are  met  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final 


-♦8  297  8«- 

resting-place  of  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that 
nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper 
that  we  should  do  this. 

"  But,  in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot 
consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow  this  ground.  The  brave 
men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here  have  consecrated 
it  far  above  our  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world 
will  little  note,  nor  long  remember,  what  we  say  here  ; 
but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did  here. 

6.  '^It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated 
here  to  the  unfinished  work  which  they  have  thus  far  so 
nobly  carried  on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated 
to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us;  that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause 
for  which  they  here  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devo- 
tion ;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall 
not  have  died  in  vain;  that  this  nation  shall,  under 
God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom  ;  and  that  govern- 
ment of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth." 

7.  The  audience  admired  Everett's  long  oration,  but 
at  Mr.  Lincoln's  few  and  simple  words  they  cheered,  and 
sobbed  and  wept.  When  the  President  had  ended  he 
turned  and  congratulated  the  distinguished  orator  from 
the  Old  Bay  State  on  having  succeeded  so  well. 

Mr.  Everett  replied  with  a  truthful  and  real  compli- 


ment:  "Ah,  Mr.  Lincoln,  how  gladly  would  I  exchange 
all  my  hundred  pages  to  have  been  the  author  of  your 
twenty  lines." 

Time  has  tested  the  strength  of  this  short,  simple 
address.  After  more  than  one-third  of  a  century,  its 
glowing  sentences  are  as  familiar  to  the  American  people 
as  household  words. 


THE  LORD   OF   BUTRAGO. 

Translated  from  the  Spanish 
By  JOHN  C.  LOCKHART. 

^'  Your  horse  is  faint,  my  king,  my  lord !   your  gallant 

horse  is  sick,  — 
His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on  his  eye  the  film 

is  thick ; 
Mount,  mount  on  mine,  oh,  mount  apace,  I  pray  thee, 

mount  and  fly  1 
Or  in  my  arms  I'll  lift  your  grace.     Their  trampling 

hoofs  are  nigh ! 

"My  king,  my  king!    you're  wounded  sore, — rthe  blood 

runs  from  your  feet ; 
But  only  lay  a  hand  before,  and  I  '11  lift  you  to  your 

seat ; 


-«»8  299  8«^ 

Mount,  Juan,  for  they  gather  fast !  —  I  hear  their  coming 

cry,— 
Mount,  mount  and   ride  for  jeopardy — I'll   save   you, 

though  I  die ! 

"  Nay,  never  speak ;   my  sires,  Lord  King,  received  their 

land  from  yours. 
And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so  be  it  thine  secures; 
If  I  should  fly,  and  thou,  my  king,  be  found  among  the 

dead, 
How  could  I  stand  'mong  gentlemen,  such  scorn  on  my 

gray  head. 

"  Castile's  proud  dames  shall  never  point  the  finger  of 

disdain. 
And  say  :    '  There  's  one  who  ran  away  when  our  good 

lords  were  slain  ! ' 
I  leave  Diego  in  your  care  ;   you  '11  fill  his  father's  place ; 
Strike,  strike  the  spur  and  never  spare !    God's  blessing 

on  your  grace !  " 

So  spake  the  brave  Montanez,  Butrago's  lord  was  he  ; 
And  turned  him  to  the  coming  host  in  steadfastness  and 

glee ; 
He  flung  himself  among  them  as  they  came  down  the  hill— 
He  died,  God  wot !    but  not  before  his  sword  had  drunk 

its  fill. 


-^  300  Qh- 


DEATH   OF   JACKANAPES. 

By  JULIANA  H.   EWING. 

The  following  extract  is  another  selection  from  Mrs.  Ewing's 
"  Jackanapes." 

prej'ii  dige  m  vSriin  ta  ry 

con  grat  u  la'tions  tag  i  tur'ni  ty 

1.  The  General's  death  was  a  great  shock  to  Miss 
Jessamine,  and  her  nephew  stayed  with  her  for  some 
little  time  after  ther  funeral.  Then  he  was  obliged  to 
join  his  regiment  which  was  ordered  abroad. 

One  effect  of  the  conquest  which  the  General  had 
gained  over  the  affections  of  the  village  was  a  considerable 
abatement  of  the  popular  prejudice  against  "  the  military." 

Indeed,  the  village  was  now  somewhat  importantly 
represented  in  the  army.  There  was  the  General  himself 
and  the  postman  and  the  Black  Captain's  tablet  in  the 
church  and  Jackanapes  and  Tony  Johnson  and  a  trump- 
eter. 

2.  Tony  Johnson  had  no  more  natural  taste  for  fight- 
ing than  for  riding,  but  he  was  devoted  to  Jackanapes. 
And  that  was  how  it  came  about  that  Mr.  Johnson  bought 
him  a  commission  in  the  same  cavalry  regiment  that  the 


-18  301  8«- 

General's  grandson  (whose  commission  had  been  given 
him  by  the  Iron  Duke)  was  in ;  and  that  he  was  quite 
content  to  be  the  butt  of  the  mess  where  Jackanapes  was 
the  hero. 

When  Jackanapes  wrote  home  to  Miss  Jessamine,  Tony 
wrote  with  the  same  purpose  to  his  mother,  —  namely,  to 
demand  her  congratulations  that  they  were  on  active 
service  at  last  and  were  orde.red  to  the  front. 

And  he  added  a  postscript  to  the  effect  that  she  could 
have  no  idea  how  popular  Jackanapes  was,  nor  how 
splendidly  he  rode  the  wonderful  red  charger  which  he 
had  named  after  his  old  friend  Lollo. 


3.  When  the  smoke  in  front  lifted  for  a  moment,  the 
boy  trumpeter  could  see  the  plain  and  the  enemy's  line 
some  two  hundred  yards  away.  And  across  the  plain 
between  them  he  saw  Master  Jackanapes  galloping  alone 
at  the  top  of  Lollo's  speed,  their  faces  to  the  enemy^  his 
golden  head  at  Lollo's  ear. 

But  at  this  moment  noise  and  smoke  seemed  to  burst 
out  on  every  side;  the  officer  shouted  to  him  to  sound 
Retire !  and  between  trumpeting  and  bumping  about  on 
his  horse  he  saw  and  heard  no  more  of  the  incidents  of 
his  first  battle. 

Tony  Johnson  was  always  unlucky  with  horses  from 
the  days  of  the  giddy-go-round  onwards.     On  this  day  — 


-*»9  302  8«- 

of  all  days  in  the  year  —  his  own  horse  was  on  the  sick 
list  and  he  had  to  ride  an  inferior  beast  and  fell  off  that 
at  the  very  moment  when  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death 
to  be  able  to  ride  away.  The  horse  fell  on  him,  but 
struggled  up  again,  and  Tony  managed  to  keep  hold 
of  it. 

4.  It  was  in  trying  to  remount  that  he  discovered,  by 
helplessness  and  anguish,  that  one  of  his  legs  was  crushed 
and  broken,  and  that  no  feat  of  which  he  was  master 
would  get  him  into  the  saddle. 

Not  able  even  to  stand  alone,  awkwardly,  agonizingly, 
unable  to  mount  his  restive  horse,  his  life  was  yet  so 
strong  within  him !  On  one  side  of  him  rolled  the  dust 
and  smoke  cloud  of  his  advancing  foes,  and  on  the  other 
that  which  covered  his  retreating  friends. 

He  turned  one  piteous  gaze  after  them  with  a  bitter 
twinge,  not  of  reproach,  but  of  loneliness;  and  then, 
dragging  himself  up  by  the  side  of  his  horse,  he  turned 
the  other  way  and  drew  out  his  pistol  and  waited  for  the 
end.  Whether  he  waited  seconds  or  minutes  he  never 
knew  before  some  one  gripped  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Jackanapes !  God  bless  you !  It 's  my  left  leg.  If 
you  could  get  me  on  —  " 

5.  It  was  like  Tony's  luck  that  his  pistol  went  off  at 
his  horse's  tail  and  made  it  plunge ;  but  Jackanapes  threw 
him  across  the  saddle. 


-^•e  303  Qh- 


JACKANAPES    SAVES    TONY. 


"  Hold  on  anyhow  and  stick  your  spur  in.  I  '11  lead 
him.     Keep  your  head  down ;  they  're  firing  high." 

And  Jackanapes  laid  his  head  down  —  to  Lollo's  ear. 

It  was  when  they  were  fairly  off  that  a  sudden 
upspringing  of  the  enemy  in  all  directions  had  made  it 
necessary  to  change  the  gradual  retirement  of  our  force 
into  as  rapid  a  retreat  as  possible. 

And  when  Jackanapes  became  aware  of  this,  and  felt 
the  lagging  and  swerving  of  Tony's  horse,  he  began  to 
wish  he  had  thrown  his  friend  across  his  own  saddle 
and  left  their  lives  to  Lollo. 

When  Tony  became  aware  of  it  several  things  came 
into  his  head  :  that  the  dangers  of  their  ride  for  life  were 


-6  304  B«- 

now  more  than  doubled ;  that  if  Jackanapes  and  Lollo 
were  not  burdened  with  him  they  would  undoubtedly 
escape ;  that  Jackanapes'  life  was  infinitely  valuable,  and 
his — Tony's — was  not;  and  that  if  he  could  be  coura- 
geous and  unselfish  now  — 

6.  He  caught  at  his  own  reins  and  spoke  very  loud : 
"Jackanapes!     It  won't  do.     You  and  Lollo  must  go 

on.  Tell  the  fellows  I  gave  you  back  to  them  with  all 
my  heart.     Jackanapes,  if  you  love  me,  leave  me !  " 

There  was  a  daffodil  light  over  the  evening  sky  in  front 
of  them,  and  it  shone  strangely  on  Jackanapes'  hair  and 
face.  He  turned  with  an  odd  look  in  his  eyes  that  a 
vainer  man  than  Tony  Johnson  might  have  taken  for 
brotherly  pride.  Then  he  shook  his  head  and  laughed  at 
him. 

"Leave  you?  To  save  my  skin ?  No,  Tony,  not  to  save 
my  soul ! " 

7.  Coming  out  of  a  hospital  tent,  at  headquarters,  the 
surgeon  cannoned  against  and  rebounded  from  another 
officer,  —  a  sallow  man,  not  young,  with  a  face  worn  more 
by  ungentle  experiences  than  by  age,  with  weary  eyes 
that  kept  their  own  counsel,  iron-gray  hair,  and  a  mus- 
tache that  was  as  if  a  raven  had  laid  its  wing  across  his 
lips  and  sealed  them. 

"Well?'' 


He  305  B«- 

"  Beg  pardon,  Major.  Did  n't  see  you.  Oh,  compaund 
fracture  and  bruises.  But  it 's  all  right ;  he  '11  pull 
through." 

"Thank  God." 

8.  It  was  probably  an  involuntary  expression;  for 
prayer  and  praise  were  not  much  in  the  Major's  line,  as 
a  jerk  of  the  surgeon's  head  would  have  betrayed  to  an 
observer. 

He  was  a  bright  little  man  with  his  feelings  showing 
all  over  him,  but  with  gallantry  and  contempt  of  death 
enough  for  both  sides  of  his  profession,  who  took  a  cool 
head,  a  white  handkerchief,  and  a  case  of  instruments 
where  other  men  went  hot-blooded  with  weapons,  and 
who  was  the  biggest  gossip  of  the  regiment.  Not  even 
the  Major's  taciturnity  daunted  him. 

9.  "  Did  n't  think  he  'd  as  much  pluck  about  him  as 
he  has.  He  '11  do  all  right  if  he  does  n't  fret  himself  into 
a  fever  about  poor  Jackanapes." 

"Whom  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  the  Major, 
hoarsely. 

"  Young  Johnson.     He  —  " 

"  What  about  Jackanapes  ?  " 

"Don't  you  know?  Sad  business.  Rode  back  for 
Johnson  and  brought  him  in ;  but,  monstrous  ill  luck,  hit 
as  they  rode.     Left  lung — " 

"Will  he  recover?" 


-^  306  8«- 

-  "  No.  Sad  business.  What  a  frame  —  what  limbs  — 
what  health  —  and  what  good  looks  !  Finest  young 
fellow  —  " 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  In  his  own  tent,"  said  the  surgeon,  sadly. 

The  Major  wheeled  and  left  him. 


10.  "  Can  I  do  anything  else  for  you  ?  " 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  Except —  Major!  I  wish  I 
could  get  you  to  appreciate  Johnson." 

"  This  is  not  an  easy  moment,  Jackanapes." 

"Let  me  tell  you,  sir  —  he  never  will  —  that  if  he  could 
have  driven  me  from  him  he  would  be  lying  yonder  at 
this  moment  and  I  should  be  safe  and  sound." 

The  Major  laid  his  hand  over  his  mouth  as  if  to  keep 
back  a  wish  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to  utter. 

"  I  've  known  old  Tony  from  a  child.  He  's  a  fool  on 
impulse,  a  good  man  and  a  gentleman  in  principle.  And 
he  acts  on  principle.  He  's  no  fire-eater,  but  he  has  a 
trained  conscience  and  a  tender  heart,  and  he  '11  do  his 
duty  when  a  braver  and  more  selfish  man  might  fail  you. 
But  he  wants  encouragement ;  and  when  I  'm  gone  —  " 

11.  "He  shall,  have  encouragement.  You  have  my 
word  for  it.     Can  I  do  nothing  else  ?  " 

"Yes,  Major.     A  favor." 


-^  307  B^ 

"Thank  you,  Jackanapes." 

"  Be  Lollo's  master,  and  love  him  as  well  as  you  can. 
He  's  used  to  it." 

"  While  I  live  —  which  will  be  longer  than  I  desire  or 
deserve  —  Lollo  shall  want  nothing  —  but  —  you." 

"No,  stay —  Major!" 

"What?     What?" 

12.  "Say  a  prayer  by  me.  Out  loud,  please;  I  am 
getting  deaf." 

"  My  dearest  Jackanapes  —  my  dear  boy  —  " 

"Please,"  whispered  Jackanapes. 

Pressed  by  the  conviction  that  what  little  he  could  do 
it  was  his  duty  to  do,  the  Major,  kneeling,  bared  his  head 
and  spoke  loudly,  clearly,  and  very  reverently : 

"The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  — " 

Jackanapes  moved  his  left  hand  to  his  right  one,  which 
still  held  the  Major's  — 

"Theloveof  God  — " 

And  with  that  —  Jackanapes  died. 


-«»8  308  8«^ 

WASHINGTON'S  ADDRESS   TO   HIS   TROOPS. 

Before  the  Battle  of  Long  Island,  1776. 

The  Battle  of  Long  Island  took  place  August  27,  1776.  It  was 
lost,  and  the  American  Army  was  obliged  to  retreat.  The  defeat 
was  largely  due  to  the  carelessness  of  General  Putnam,  who  did 
not  place  a  guard  at  all  the  passes  as  Washington  had  ordered  him 
to  do. 

Instead  of  sending  word  to  Washington  when  he  learned  that 
the  British  were  coming,  he  sent  a  few  troops  to  meet  their  large 
army,  and  they  were  driven  back  or  made  prisoners. 

If  General  Howe  of  the  British  Army  had  been  on  the  alert,  he 
might  have  captured  General  Washington  and  his  whole  force  ;  but 
Washington  watched  his  opportunity,  and  retreated  in  good  order. 

In'fa  mous  mer'^e  na  ry  m  tim'i  date 

1.  The  time  is  now  near  at  hand  which  must  probably 
determine  whether  Americans  are  to  be  free  men  or 
slaves ;  whether  they  are  to  have  any  property  they  can 
call  their  own ;  whether  their  houses  and  farms  are  to  be 
pillaged  and  destroyed  and  themselves  consigned  to  a 
state  of  wretchedness  from  which  no  human  efforts  will 
deliver  them. 

2.  The  fate  of  unborn  millions  will  now  depend,  under 
God,  on  the  courage  and  conduct  of  this  army.  Our  cruel 
and  unrelenting  enemy  leaves  us  only  the  choice  of  a 
brave  resistance  or  the  most  abject  submission.  We 
have,  therefore,  to  resolve  to  conquer  or  to  die. 


-^  309  8«^ 

Our  own,  our  country's  honor,  calls  upon  us  for  a 
vigorous  and  manly  exertion ;  and  if  we  now  shamefully 
fail  we  shall  become  infamous  to  the  whole  world. 

Let  us,  then,  rely  on  the  goodness  of  our  cause  and  the 
aid  of  the  Supreme  Being,  in  whose  hand  victory  is,  to 
animate  and  encourage  us  to  great  and  noble  actions, 

3.  The  eyes  of  all  our  countrymen  are  now  upon  us, 
and  we  shall  have  their  blessings  and  praises  if,  happily, 
we  are  the  instruments  of  saving  them  from  the  tyranny 
meditated  against  them. 

Let  us  animate  and  encourage  each  other  and  show  the 
whole  world  that  a  free  man  contending  for  liberty  on 
his  own  ground  is  superior  to  any  slavish  mercenary  on 
earth. 

4.  Liberty,  property,  life,  and  honor  are  all  at  stake; 
upon  your  courage  and  conduct  rest  the  hopes  of  our 
bleeding  and  insulted  country.  Our  wives,  children,  and 
parents  expect  safety  from  us  alone,  and  they  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  Heaven  will  crown  with  success  so 
just  a  cause. 

The  enemy  will  endeavor  to  intimidate  by  show  and 
appearance ;  but,  remember,  they  have  been  repulsed  on 
various  occasions  by  a  few  brave  Americans.  Every  good 
soldier  will  be  silent  and  attentive  —  wait  for  orders  and 
reserve  his  fire  until  he  is  sure  of  doing  execution. 


-i6  310  8«^ 
HEIGHO,   MY  DEARIE. 

By  EUGENE  FIELD. 

From  "  With  Trumpet  and  Drum,"  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
Cop3rright,  1892,  by  Mary  French  Field. 

A  MOONBEAM  floateth  from  the  skies, 
Whispering,  "  Heigho,  my  dearie, 
I  would  spin  a  web  before  your  eyes  — 
A  beautiful  web  of  silver  light. 
Wherein  is  many  a  wondrous  sight 
Of  a  radiant  garden  leagues  away. 
Where  the  softly  tinkling  lilies  sway, 
And  the  snow-white  lambkins  are  at  play  — 
Heigho,  my  dearie." 

A  brownie  stealeth  from  the  vine. 

Singing,  "  Heigho,  my  dearie ; 
And  will  you  hear  this  song  of  mine  — 
A  song  of  the  land  of  murk  and  mist 
Where  bideth  the  bud  the  dew  hath  kissed  ? 
Then  let  the  moonbeam's  web  of  light 
Be  spun  before  thee  silvery  white, 
And  I  shall  sing  the  livelong  night  — 
Heigho,  my  dearie  !  " 

The  night  wind  speedeth  from  the  sea, 

Murmuring,  "  Heigho,  my  dearie, 
I  bring  a  mariner's  prayer  for  thee. 


-^  31  1   »- 

So  let  the  moonbeam  veil  thine  eyes, 
And  the  brownie  sing  thee  lullabies ; 

But  I  shall  rock  thee  to  and  fro. 

Kissing  the  brow  he  loveth  so, 

And  the  prayer  shall  guard  thy  bed  I  trow  — 
Heigho,  my  dearie  ! " 


THE   LIGHT-BORN  MESSENGER. 

By  hall  CAINE. 

Naomi  was  a  beautiful  Jewish  girl  who  had  been  blind  all  her 
life.  Her  mother  was  dead  and  she  and  her  father  had  been 
treated  unkindly  by  their  people.  Learning  from  the  sound  of 
her  father's  voice  one  day  that  he  was  suffering  and  in  danger, 
her  eyes  suddenly  received  their  sight.  Israel,  her  father,  was 
banished  from  his  home  by  wicked  men;  but  he  found  a  little 
cottage  far  away  from  their  old  home  where  they  might  live  in 
peace.  This  extract,  taken  from  "  The  Scapegoat,"  tells  how  she 
learned  to  see. 

-  spbnta'nSous  im'plements 

pen'e  trat  ed  hermit  age 

1.  At  that  moment  God  wrought  a  mighty  work,  a 
wondrous  change,  such  as  He  has  brought  to  pass  but 
twice  or  thrice  since  men  were  born  blind  into  His  world 
of  light.    In  an  instant,  at  a  thought,  by  one  spontaneous 


flash,  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  girl  tore  down  the  dark  cur- 
tains which  had  hung  seventeen  years  over  the  windows 
of  her  eyes,  Naomi  saw ! 

She  was  like  a  creature  born  afresh,  a  radiant  and  joyful 
being,  newly  awakened  into  a  world  of  strange  sights.  But 
it  was  not  at  once  that  she  fell  upon  this  pleasure. 

Throughout  the  day  whereon  the  last  of  her  great  gifts 
came  to  her,  when  they  were  cast  out  of  Tetuan,  and 
while  they  walked  hand  in  hand  through  the  country 
until  they  lit  upon  their  home,  she  had  kept  her  eyes 
steadfastly  closed. 

2.  The  light  terrified  her.  It  penetrated  her  delicate 
lids  and  gave  her  pain.  When  for  a  moment  she  lifted 
her  lashes  and  saw  the  trees  she  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to 
push  them  away,  and  when  she  saw  the  sky  she  raised 
her  arms  as  if  to  hold  it  off. 

Everything  seemed  to  touch  her  eyes.  The  bars  of 
sunlight  seemed  to  smite  them.  Not  until  the  falling  of 
darkness  did  her  fears  subside  and  her  spirits  revive. 
Throughout  the  day  that  followed  she  sat  constantly  in 
the  gloom  of  the  blackest  corner  of  their  hut. 

3.  But  this  was  only  her  baptism  of  light  on  coming 
out  of  a  world  of  darkness,  just  as  her  fear  of  the  voices 
of  the  earth  and  air  had  been  her  baptism  of  sound  on 
coming  out  of  a  land  of  silence.  Within  three  days  after- 
ward her  terror  began  to  give  place  to  joy,  and  from 


-^3138*- 

that  time  forward  the  world  was  full  of  wonder  to  her 
opened  eyes. 

Then  sweet  and  beautiful  beyond  all  dreams  of  fancy 
were  her  amazement  and  delight  in  every  little  thing  that 
lay  about  her,  —  the  grass,  the  weeds,  the  poorest  flower 
that  blew,  even  the  rude  implements  of  the  house  and  the 
common  stones  that  worked  up  through  the  mould,  —  all 
old  and  familiar  to  her  fingers,  but  new  and  strange  to 
her  eyes,  and  marvelous  as  if  an  angel  out  of  heaven  had 
dropped  them  down  to  her. 

4.  For  many  days  after  the  coming  of  her  sight  she 
continued  to  recognize  everything  by  touch  and  sound. 
Thus,  one  morning  early  in  their  life  in  the  cottage,  and 
early  also  in  the  day,  after  Israel  had  kissed  her  on  the 
eyelids  to  awaken  her,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  up 
at  him  as  he  stooped  above  her. 

She  looked  puzzled  for  an  instant,  being  still  in  the 
mists  of  sleep,  and  only  when  she  had  closed  her  eyes 
again  and  put  out  her  hand  to  touch  him  did  her  face 
brighten  with  recognition  and  her  lips  utter  his  name. 
"  My  father,"  she  murmured  ;  "  my  father." 

5.  Thus  again  the  same  day,  not  an  hour  afterward, 
she  came  running  back  to  the  house  from  the  grass  bank 
in  front  of  it,  holding  a  flower  in  her  hand  and  asking  a 
world  of  questions  concerning  it  in  her  broken,  lispingy 
pretty  speech. 


Why  had  no  one  told  her  that  there  were  flowers  that 
could  see  ?  Here  was  one  which  while  she  looked  upon 
it  had  opened  its  beautiful  eye  and  laughed  at  her. 
"What  is  it?"  she  asked;    "what  is  it?" 

"  A  daisy,  my  child,"  Israel  answered. 

"A  daisy !  "  she  cried  in  bewilderment ;  and  during  the 
short  hush  and  quick  inspiration  that  followed,  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  passed  her  nervous  fingers  rapidly  over  the 
little  ring  of  sprinkled  spears  and  then  said  very  softly, 
with  head  aslant  as  if  ashamed,  "  Oh,  yes,  so  it  is ;  it  is 
only  a  daisy." 

6.  But  to  tell  of  how  those  first  days  of  sight  sped 
along  for  Naomi,  with  what  delight  of  ever-fresh  surprise 
and  joy  of  new  wonder,  would  be  a  long  task,  if  a  beauti- 
ful one. 

They  were  some  miles  inside  the  coast,  but  from 
the  little  hilltop  near  at  hand  they  could  see  it  clearly. 
One  day  when  Naomi  had  gone  so  far  with  her  father 
she  drew  up  suddenly  at  his  side  and  cried  in  a  breathless 
voice  of  awe,  "  The  sky  1  the  sky !  Look !  It  has  fallen 
onto  the  land." 

"  That  is  the  sea,  my  child,"  said  Israel. 

"  The  sea !  "  she  cried,  and  then  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
listened,  and  then  opened  them  and  blushed  and  said, 
while  her  knitted  brows  smoothed  out  and  her  beautiful 
face  looked  aside :  "  So  it  is ;  yes,  it  is  the  sea." 


7.  Throughout  that  day  and  the  night  which  followed 
it,  the  eyes  of  her  mind  were  entranced  by  the  marvel  of 
that  vision,  and  next  morning  she  mounted  the  hill  alone 
to  look  upon  it  again. 

She  walked  farther  and  yet  farther,  wandering  on 
and  on  and  on  as  though  drawn  by  the  enchantment 
of  the  mighty  deep  that  lay  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
until  at  last  she  came  to  the  head  of  a  deep  gully  in 
the  coast. 

Still  the  wonder  of  the  waters  held  her,  but  another 
marvel  now  seized  upon  her  sight.  The  gully  was  a 
lonesome  place,  inhabited  by  countless  sea  birds.  From 
high  up  in  the  rocks  above  and  from  far  down  in  the 
chasm  below,  from  every  cleft  on  every  side  they  flew 
out  with  white  wings  and  black  ones  and  gray  and  blue, 
and  sent  their  voices  into  the  air  until  the  echoing  place 
seemed  to  shriek  and  yell. 

8.  It  was  midday  when  Naomi  reached  this  spot  and 
she  sat  there  a  long  hour.  And  when  she  returned  to 
her  father  she  told  him  stories  of  demons  that  lived  in 
thousands  by  the  sea  and  fought  in  the  air  and  killed 
each  other.  ^^And  see!"  she  cried,  "look  at  this,  and 
this,  and  this  1 " 

Then  Israel  glanced  at  the  wrecks  she  had  brought 
with  her  of  the  warfare  that  she  had  witnessed.  "And 
this,"  said  he,  lifting  one  of  them,  "  is  a  sea  bird's  feather, 


and  this,"  lifting  another,  "  is  a  sea  bird's  egg,  and  this/' 
lifting  the  third,  "  is  a  dead  sea  bird  itself." 

9.  Once  more  Naomi  knit  her  brows  in  thought,  and 
again  she  closed  her  eyes  and  touched  the  familiar  things 
wherein  her  sight  had  deceived  her.  "  Ah,  yes,"  she  said 
meekly,  looking  into  her  father's  eyes  with  a  smile,  "  they 
are  only  that,  after  all."  And  then  she  said  very  quietly, 
as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "  What  a  long  time  it  is  before 
you  learn  to  see !  " 

One  earlj^  evening,  when  she  had  remained  out  of  the 
house  until  the  day  was  well-nigh  done,  she  came  back  in 
a  wild  ecstasy  to  tell  of  angels  that  she  had  just  seen  in 
the  sky.  They  were  in  robes  of  crimson  and  scarlet,  their 
wings  blazed  like  fire,  they  swept  across  the  clouds  in 
multitudes  and  went  down  behind  the  world  together, 
passing  thus  out  of  the  earth  through  the  gates  of 
heaven. 

10.  Israel  listened  to  her  and  said,  "  That  was  the  sun- 
set, my  child.  Every  morning  the  sun  rises  and  every 
night  it  sets." 

Then  she  looked  full  into  his  face  and  blushed.  Her 
shame  at  her  sweet  errors  sometimes  conquered  her  joy 
in  the  new  heritage  of  sight,  and  Israel  heard  her  whisper 
to  herself  and  say,  ^' After  all,  the  eyes  are  deceitful." 
Vision  was  life's  new  language,  and  she  had  yet  to 
learn  it. 


-»83178«- 

But  not  for  long  was  her  delight  in  the  beautiful  things 
of  the  world  to  be  damped  by  any  thought  of  herself. 
Nay,  the  best  and  rarest  part  of  it,  the  dearest  and  most 
delicious  throb  it  brought  her,  came  of  herself  alone. 

11.  On  another  early  day  Israel  took  her  to  the  coast 
and  pushed  off  with  her  on  the  waters  in  a  boat.  The  air 
was  still,  the  sea  was  smooth,  the  sun  was  shining,  and  save 
for  one  white  scarf  of  cloud,  the  sky  was  blue. 

They  were  sailing  in  a  tiny  bay  that  was  broken  by 
a  little  island  which  lay  in  the  midst  like  a  ruby  in  a 
ring,  covered  with  heather  and  long  stalks  of  seeding 
grass.  Through  whispering  beds  of  rushes  they  glided 
on  and  floated  over  white  lilies  that  swayed  between  round 
leaves  of  green  and  gold  and  purple. 

It  was  a  morning  of  God's  own  making,  and,  for  joy  of 
its  loveliness  no  less  than  of  her  own  bounding  life,  Naomi 
rose  in  the  boat  and  opened  her  lips  and  arms  to  the 
breeze  while  it  played  with  the  rippling  currents  of  her 
hair,  as  if  she  would  drink  and  embrace  it. 

12.  At  that  moment  a  new  and  dearer  wonder  came  to 
her.  For,  tracing  with  her  eyes  the  shadow  of  the  cliff 
and  of  the  cloud  that  sailed  double  in  two  seas  of  blue, 
she  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  boat  and  then  saw  the 
reflection  of  another  and  lovelier  vision. 

''  Father,"  she  cried  with  alarm,  "  a  face  in  the  water ! 
Look!     Look!" 


"  It  is  your  own,  my  child/'  said  Israel. 
"  Mine !  "  she  cried. 

"  The  reflection  of  your  face/'  said  Israel ;  "  the  light 
and  the  water  make  it." 

13.    The  marvel  was  hard  to  understand.     There  was 


NAOMI'S    FIRST    GLIMPSE    OF    HER    OWN    FACE 

something  ghostly  in  this  thing  that  was  she  and  yet  not 
she,  this  face  that  looked  up  at  her  and  laughed  and  yet 
made  no  voice.  She  leaned  back  in  the  boat  and  asked 
Israel  if  it  was  still  in  the  water. 

But  when  at  length  she  had  grasped  the  mystery,  the 
artlessness  of  her  joy  was  charming.  She  was  like  a 
child  in  her  delight,  and  like  a  woman  that  was  still  a 


-^3198^ 

child  in  her  unconscious  love  of  her  own  loveliness. 
Whenever  the  boat  was  at  rest  she  leaned  over  its  bul- 
wark and  gazed  down  into  the  blue  depths. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  she  cried,  "  how  beautiful !  " 

14.  She  clapped  her  hands  and  looked  again,  and  there 
in  the  still  water  was  the  wonder  of  her  dancing  eyes. 
"  Oh  !  how  very  beautiful ! "  she  cried  without  lifting  her 
face,  and  when  she  saw  her  lips  move  as  she  spoke  and 
her  sunny  hair  fall  about  her  restless  head,  she  laughed 
and  laughed  again  with  a  heart  of  glee. 

Israel  looked  on  for  some  moments  at  this  sweet 
picture. 

"  Live  on  like  a  child  always,  little  one,"  he  thought ; 
"  be  a  child  as  long  as  you  can,  be  a  child  forever,  my 
dove,  my  darling !  Never  did  the  world  suffer  it  that  I 
myself  should  be  a  child  at  all." 


h6  320  8«^ 
THE  LITTLE  LAND. 

By  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

When  at  home  alone  I  sit 
And  am  very  tired  of  it, 
I  have  just  to  shut  my  eyes 
To  go  sailing  through  the  skies  — 
To  go  sailing  far  away 
To  the  pleasant  land  of  play ; 
To  the  fairyland  afar 
Where  the  little  people  are ; 
Where  the  clover  tops  are  trees, 
And  the  rain  pools  are  the  seas, 
And  the  leaves,  like  little  ships, 
Sail  about  on  tiny  trips  ; 
And  above  the  daisy  tree. 

Through  the  grasses, 
High  o'erhead  the  bumblebee 

Hums  and  passes. 

In  that  forest  to  and  fro 
I  can  wander,  I  can  go  ; 
See  the  spider  and  the  fly 
And  the  ants  go  marching  by, 
Carrying  parcels  with  their  feet 
Down  the  green  and  mossy  street. 


^  821  8*^ 

I  can  in  tlie  sorrel  sit 

Where  the  ladybird  alit. 

I  can  climb  the  jointed  grass ; 

And  on  high 
See  the  greater  swallows  pass 

In  the  sky. 
And  the  round  sun  rolling  by, 
Heeding  no  such  things  as  I. 

Through  that  forest  I  can  pass 
Till,  "as  in  a  looking-glass, 
Humming  fly  and  daisy  tree 
And  my  tiny  self  I  see, 
Painted  very  clear  and  neat 
On  the  rain  pool  at  my  feet. 
Should  a  leaflet  come  to  land. 
Drifting  near  to  where  I  stand, 
Straight  I  board  that  tiny  boat 
Round  the  rain  pool  sea  to  float. 

Little  thoughtful  creatures  sit 
On  the  grassy  coasts  of  it ; 
Little  things  with  lovely  eyes 
See  me  sailing  with  surprise. 
Some  are  clad  in  armor  green  — 
These  have  sure  to  battle  been !  - 


Some  are  pied  with  every  hue, 
Black  and  crimson,  gold  and  blue  ; 
Some  have  wings  and  swift  are  gone  ; 
But  they  all  look  kindly  on. 

When  my  eyes  I  once  again 
Open  and  see  all  things  plain,  — 
High  bare  walls,  great  bare  floor. 
Great  big  knobs  on  drawer  and  door ; 
Great  big  people  perched  on  chairs, 
Stitching  tucks  and  mending  tears, 
Each  a  hill  that  I  could  climb. 
And  talking  nonsense  all  the  time,  — 

0  dear  me. 

That  I  could  be 
A  sailor  on  the  rain  pool  sea, 
A  climber  in  the  clover  tree, 
And  just  come  back,  a  sleepy  head, 
Late  at  night  to  go  to  bed. 


ROLF'S   LEAP. 

By  GEORGIANA  M.  CRAIK. 

ac  Qept^an^e  .  pan'tomime 

ex  cur'sions  crSc^o  dile 

(8h)        -^ 

1.  ^^  What,  you  're  making  friends  with  my  old  Rolf, 
are  you,  boys  ?  Dear  old  Rolf !  "  said  Uncle  Dick ;  and  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice  away  broke  Rolf  from  the  two  lads, 
sending  them  right  and  left  like  a  couple  of  ninepins, 
and,  bounding  forward,  lame  leg  and  all,  had  got  his 
faithful  head  in  another  moment  pressed  against  his 
master's  side  and  was  lustily  wagging  his  tail. 

"  That 's  my  good  old  dog ! "  said  Uncle  Dick,  and 
stroked  his  favorite's  shaggy  back  and  shook  the  paw 
that  Rolf  kept  solemnly  presenting  for  his  acceptance  at 
least  a  dozen  times  -over. 

"  He  has  been  going  on  with  such  fun,  —  licking  our 
faces  and  putting  his  paws  on  our  shoulders;  and  he 
rolled  Tommy  right  over  on  the  grass,"  said  Will,  the 
elder  of  the  two  boys.  "Tommy  tried  to  get  on  his 
back  and  he  did  n't  like  it  and  tumbled  him  off." 

2.  "Of  course  he  didn't  like  it,"  said  Uncle  Dick. 
"  You  would  n't  like  to  have  anybody  get  on  your  back  if 
you  were  lame  in  one  leg  ;  at  least,  I  know  I  should  n't. 


-»6  324  B*- 

I  'd  tumble  him  off  fast  enough.  Tommy  may  do  any- 
thing else  he  likes,  but  he  must  n't  make  Rolf  carry  him." 

The  two  boys  and  Uncle  Dick  began  to  walk  round 
the  garden,  and  they  came  to  take  shelter  at  last  in  the 
arbor. 

"  You  've  got  fine  red  cheeks,  boys,"  said  Uncle  Dick, 
"and  two  pairs  of  sturdy  legs.  Eolf  and  I  would  like 
to  be  able  to  jump  about  like  you,  but  our  jumping  days 
are  over.  Not  but  that  Rolf  took  a  finer  leap  once  than 
either  of  you  lads  have  ever  done  yet,"  said  Uncle  Dick, 
after  a  moment  or  two,  and  stooped  down  to  pat  his 
favorite's  great  head. 

"  A  noble  leap,  was  n't  it,  my  old  dog  ?  "  he  said ;  and 
Rolf  looked  up  with  his  gentle  eyes,  being  too  sleepy  to 
say  much. 

The  boys  had  sat  down  to  rest  ;  and  so  Will  said  : 
"Tell  us  what  sort  of  a  leap  Rolf  took.  Uncle  Dick." 

3.  "  We  were  both  of  us  younger, than  we  are  now," 
he  said,  "  when  Rolf  and  I  first  came  together.  Rolf 
was  a  puppy.  It  was  just  when  I  was  going  out  to 
Africa  that  some  one  gave  Rolf  to  me.  '  He  comes  of 
a  fine  stock,  and  if  he  proves  as  good  a  dog  as  his  father 
you  won't  part  with  him  at  the  end  of  a  year  for  a  trifle,' 
my  friend  said. 

"  I  soon  found  that  he  was  right,  for,  I  tell  you,  boys, 
by  the  year's  end  I  would  n't  have  parted  with  him,  not 


-»8S25  Be- 

if  I  had  parted  with  my  last  shilling,  and  I  'd  been  asked 
to  sell  him  for  a  thousand  pounds. 

4.  "  Ah,  you  're  laughing,  I  see.  You  think  I  'm  speak- 
ing in  fun.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Listen  to  my  story  and 
when  I  get  to  the  end  of  it  you  shall  laugh,  if  you  like. 

"  I  went  out  with  my  regiment  to  Africa  to  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope.  I  stayed  there  for  four  years,  and  they 
were  as  happy  years,  on  the  whole,  as  I  ever  spent  any- 
where. I  saw  a  great  number  of  new  things  in  the 
course  of  them  and  I  made  a  great  number  of  very  kind 
friends. 

"  We  weren't  very  hard  worked  out  there,  and  many 
a  pleasant  expedition  did  I  have  of  a  few  days  up  coun- 
try or  along  the  coast,  sometimes  with  a  companion, 
sometimes  alone  with  only  my  horse  and  old  Rolf.  I 
shall  never  forget  some  of  those  little  excursions,  for  it 
was  in  the  course  of  one  of  them  that  Rolf  took  his  leap. 

5.  "  I  had  been  riding  for  five  or  six  miles  one  pleasant 
afternoon.  It  was  just  hot  enough  to  make  the  thought 
of  a  swim  delicious;  so  after  I  had  been  riding  leisurely, 
along  for  some  little  time  I  alighted  from  my  horse  and, 
letting  him  loose  to  graze,  lay  down  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  cool  myself  and  then  began  to  make  ready  for 
my  plunge. 

"  I  was  standing  on  a  little  ledge  of  cliff  some  six  or 
seven  feet  above  the  sea.     It  was  high  tide  and  the  water 


•^  326  9(*- 

at  my  feet  was  about  a  fathom  deep.  'I  shall  have  a 
delightful  swim/  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  threw  ofE  my 
coat. 

"  Just  at  that  moment  Rolf  in  a  very  excited  way  flung 
himself  upon  me,  evidently  understanding  the  meaning 
of  the  proceeding.  I  repeated  the  remark  aloud.  ^  Yes, 
we  '11  have  a  delightful  swim,  you  and  I  together,'  I  said. 
^  A  grand  swim,  my  old  lad ' ;  and  I  clapped  his  back  as 
I  spoke  and  encouraged  him,  as  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
doing,  to  express  his  feelings  without  reserve. 

6.  "  But,  rather  to  my  surprise,  instead  of  wagging 
his  tail  and  wrinkling  his  nose  and  performing  any  of 
his  usual  antics,  the  creature  only  lifted  up  his  face  and 
began  to  whine. 

''  He  had  lain  for  the  quarter  of  an  hour,  while  I  had 
been  resting,  at  the  edge  of  the  little  cliff  with  his  head 
dropped  over  it ;  but  whether  he  had  been  taking  a  sleep 
in  that  position  or  had  been  amusing  himself  by  watching 
the  waves  was  more  than  I  knew. 

" '  What 's  the  matter,  old  fellow  ? '  I  said  to  him 
when  he  set  up  this  dismal  howl.  '  Don't  you  want  to 
have  a  swim  ?  Well,  you  need  n't  unless  you  like,  only 
I  mean  to  have  one ;  so  down  with  you  and  let  me  get 
my  clothes  off.' 

7.  "  But  instead  of  getting  down,  the  creature  began  to 
conduct  himself  in  the  strangest  way,  first  seizing  me  by 


-•e  327  9^ 

the  trousers  with  his  teeth  and  pulling  me  to  the  edge  of 
the  rock  as  if  he  wanted  me  to  plunge  in  dressed  as  I 
was,  then  catching  me  again  and  dragging  me  back, 
much  as  though  I  were  a  big  rat  that  he  was  trying 
to  worry. 

"This  pantomime,  I  declare,  he  went  through  three 
separate  times,  barking  and  whining  all  the  while,  till  I 
began  to  think  he  was  going  out  of  his  mind. 

"  At  last  I  got  out  of  patience  with  the  beast.  I 
could  n't  conceive  what  he  meant.  For  two  or  three 
minutes  I  tried  to  pacify  him,  and  so  long  as  I  took  no 
further  steps  to  remove  my  clothes,  he  was  willing  to  be 
pacified;  but  the  instant  I  fell  to  undressing  myself 
he  was  on  me  once  more,  pulling  me  this  way  and  that, 
hanging  on  my  arms,  and  howling  with  his  mouth  up 
in  the  air. 

"  At  last  I  lost  my  temper  and  I  snatched  'up  my  gun 
and  struck  him  with  the  butt  end  of  it. 

8.  "  He  was  quieter  after  I  had  struck  him,"  said  Uncle 
Dick,  after  a  little  pause.  "  For  a  few  moments  he  lay 
quite  still  at  my  feet,  and  I  had  begun  to  think  that  he 
was  going  to  give  me  no  more  trouble,  when,  all  at  once, 
just  as  I  had  got  ready  to  jump  into  the  water,  the 
creature  sprang  to  his  feet  and  flung  himself  upon  me 
again.  He  threw  himself  with  all  his  might  upon  my 
breast  and  drove  me  backwards. 


"  I  imagined  the  poor  beast  was  trying  for  some  reason 
of  his  own  to  have  his  own  way.  I  thought  it  was  my 
business  to  teach  him  that  he  was  not  to  have  his  own 
way,  but  that  I  was  to  have  mine ;  and  so  I  struck  him 
three  or  four  times  with  the  end  of  my  gun  till  at  last  I 
freed  myself  from  him. 

9.  "  He  gave  a  cry  when  he  fell  back.  I  call  it  a  cry, 
for  it  was  more  like  something  human  than  a  dog's  howl, 
—  something  so  wild  and  pathetic  that,  angry  as  I 
was,  it  startled  me.  I  think  if  time  enough  had  been 
given  me  I  would  have  made  some  last  attempt  then  to 
understand  what  the  creature  meant. 

''  I  was  standing  a  few  feet  in  from  the  water,  and  as 
soon  as  I  had  shaken  him  off  he  went  to  the  edge  of  the 
bit  of  clifE  and  stood  there  for  a  moment  till  I  came  up  to 
him,  and  then  —  just  as  in  another  second  I  should  have 
jumped  into  the  sea  —  my  brave  dog,  my  noble  dog,  gave 
one  last  whine  and  one  look  into  my  face  and  took  the 
leap  before  me. 

"  And  then,  boys,  in  another  instant  I  saw  what  he  had 
meant.  He  had  scarcely  touched  the  water  when  I  saw 
a  crocodile  slip  like  lightning  from  a  sunny  ledge  of  the 
cliff  and  seize  him  by  the  hind  legs. 

10.  "  You  know  that  I  had  my  gun  close  at  hand,  and 
in  the  whole  course  of  my  life  I  never  was  so  glad  to 
have  my  gun  beside   me.      It  was  loaded,  too,  and  a 


-«329  8«- 

revolver.  I  caught  it  up  and  fired  into  tlie  water.  I 
fired  three  times  and  two  of  the  shots  went  into  the 
brute's  head. 

"  One  missed  him,  and  the  first  seemed  not  to  harm 
him  much,  but  the  third  hit  him  in  some  vital  place,  I 
hope,  —  some  sensitive  place,  at  any  rate,  for  the  hideous 
jaws  started  wide. 

"  Then  I  began  with  all  my  might  to  shout  out '  Eolf ! ' 
I  could  n't  leave  my  post,  for  the  brute,  though  he  had 
let  Rolf  go  and  had  dived  for  a  moment,  might  make 
another  spring,  and  I  did  n't  dare  to  take  my  eyes  off  the 
spot  where  he  had  gone  down. 

11.  "I  called  to  my  wounded  beast  with  all  my  might, 
and  when  he  had  struggled  through  the  water  and  gained 
a  moment's  hold  of  the  rock  I  jumped  down  and  caught 
him,  and  half  carried,  half  dragged  him  up  the  little  bit 
of  steep  ascent  till  we  were  safe  on  the  dry  land  again. 
And  then  —  I  —  I  forgot  for  a  moment  or  two  that  I  was 
a  man  at  all  and  burst  out  crying  like  a  child. 

"  He  licked  the  tears  off  my  cheeks,  my  poor  old  fellow, 
I  remember  that.  We  looked  a  strange  pair,  I  dare  say,  as 
we  lay  on  the  ground  together  with  our  heads  side  by  side. 

12.  "  When  I  had  come  to  my  senses  a  little  I  had  to 
try  to  get  my  poor  Rolf  moved.  We  were  a  long  way 
from  any  house,  and  the  creature  could  n't  walk  a  step. 
I  tore  up  my  shirt  and  bound  his  wounds  as  well  as  I 


-iQ  330  B^ 

could,  then  I  put  on  my  clothes  and  called  to  my  horse, 
and  in  some  way,  as  gently  as  I  could,  I  got  him  and  my- 
self together  upon  the  horse's  back,  and  we  began  our  ride. 
^'  There  was  a  village  about  four  or  five  miles  off,  and  I 
made  for  that.  It  was  a  long,  hard  jolt  for  a  poor  fellow 
with  both  his  hind  legs  broken,  but  he  bore  it  patiently. 
I  never  spoke  to  him,  but,  panting  as  he  was,  he  was  ready 
to  lick  my  hands  and  look  lovingly  up  into  my  face. 

13.  "I  got  him  to  a  resting-place  at  last,  after  a  weary 
ride,  and  then  I  had  his  wounds  dressed  ;  but  it  was 
weeks  before  he  could  stand  upon  his  feet  again,  and 
when  at  last  he  began  to  walk  he  limped,  and  he  has 
gone  on  limping  ever  since. 

"  It 's  all  an  old  story  now,  you  know,"  said  Uncle 
Dick  abruptly;  "  but  it 's  one  of  those  things  that  a  man 
does  n't  forget  and  that  it  would  be  a  shame  to  him  if 
he  ever  could  forget  as  long  as  his  life  lasts." 

14.  Uncle  Dick  stooped  down  again  as  he  ceased  to 
speak,  and  Rolf,  disturbed  by  the  silence,  raised  his  head  to 
look  about  him.  As  his  master  had  said,  it  was  a  grand 
old  head  still,  though  the  eyes  were  growing  dim  now 
with  age.  Uncle  Dick  laid  his  hand  upon  it  and  the 
bushy  tail  began  to  wag.  It  had  wagged  at  the  touch  of 
that  hand  for  many  a  long  day. 

"  We  Ve  been  together  for  fifteen  years.  He  's  getting 
old  now,"  said  Uncle  Dick. 


-»6  33l  9«- 
THE  BUGLE  SONG. 

By  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory.       « 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  hark,  0  hear !  how  thin  and  clear. 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 
0  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


-4Q  332  8«- 


HIS  WORD  OF  HONOR. 


The  following  graphic  story  is  based  upon  an  incident  wMch 
took  place  during  the  last  struggle  of  the  Commune  in  1871,  when 
the  forces  of  the  French  government  conquered  the  rabble  army 
after  many  riotous  contests  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

in  sur'gents  a  p51 6  get'ic  al  ly 

•  sm'ister  convuFsive 

1.  He  was  only  a  boy,  not  yet  sixteen,  but  nevertheless 
they  were  going  to  shoot  him. 

The  band  of  insurgents  to  which  he  belonged  had  been 
routed  by  the  Army  of  Versailles,  and,  with  some  ten  of 
his  comrades,  he  had  been  conducted  to  one  of  the  city 
prisons  in  Paris. 

Struck  by  his  youthful  appearance,  and  also  astonished 
at  the  boy's  coolness  in  this  hour  of  extreme  peril,  the 
commandant  had  ordered  that  the  fatal  verdict  should, 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  be  suspended  for  the  moment 
and  that  he  should  be  kept  a  prisoner  until  his  com- 
panions had  met  their  fate  at  the  neighboring  barricade. 

2.  Apparently  quite  calm  and  resigned,  his  great  eyes 
and  his  face  —  the  pale  face  of  a  Parisian  child  —  showed 
neither  emotion  nor  anxiety.  He  seemed  to  watch  the 
terrible  scenes  about  him  as  though  they  did  not  con- 
cern him. 


■^  338  8(^ 

He  heard  the  sinister  report  of  the  musketry  which 
hurled  his  companions  into  eternity  without  moving  a 
muscle;  his  calm,  fixed  gaze  seemed  to  be  looking  into 
the  great  "Afterwards,"  which  was  soon  to  become  the 
'-  Present "  to  him  also. 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  his  happy,  careless  child- 
hood —  he  had  hardly  outgrown  it ;  perhaps  of  his  rela- 
tives and  their  sorrow  when  they  should  hear  of  his  fate ; 
of  the  chain  of  fatality  which  had  made  him  fatherless 
and  had  tossed  him  into  the  seething  turmoil  of  civil 
war,  and  now  demanded  his  life  at  the  hands  of  fellow 
countrymen ;  and  perhaps  he  wondered  why  such  things 
were. 

3.  At  the  time  war  was  declared,  he  was  living  happily 
with  his  father  and  mother,  honest  working  folk  who  had 
apprenticed  him  to  a  printer ;  politics  had  never  troubled 
that  little  household. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  Prussians  had 
slain  the  head  of  the  family.  The  privations  of  the  siege, 
the  long  and  weary  waiting  at  the  butchers'  and  bakers' 
shops  when  the  scanty  dole  of  food  was  distributed  in  the 
rigor  of  that  terrible  winter,  had  stretched  his  mother  on 
the  bed  of  suffering,  where  she  lay  slowly  dying. 

4.  One  day  when  he  had  gone  with  others  to  dig  for 
potatoes  in  the  frost-bound  plain  of  St.  Denis,  a  Prussian 
bullet  broke  his  shoulder,  and  afterwards,  driven  partly 


-^  334  8«- 

by  hunger,  partly  by  fear  of  his  companions'  threats,  he 
had  enrolled  himself  in  the  Army  of  the  Commune.  Like 
many  another,  fear  and  fear  only  had  led  him  into  the 
ranks. 

He  had  no  heart  for  a  war  of  brothers,  and  now  that 
his  life  was  about  to  pay  the  penalty  he  was  glad  that 
he  could  lay  no  man's  death  to  his  charge.  He  was 
innocent  of  that,  at  any  rate. 

5.  The  things  he  had  seen  and  suffered  during  the  few 
last  months  had  given  him  a  dread  of  life.  He  hated  to 
think  of  leaving  his  mother  in  this  terrible  world,  —  his 
mother  whom  he  loved  so  dearly,  who  had  always  been 
so  good  to  him. 

He  comforted  himself  with  the  thought  that  before 
long  she  would  come,  too  —  she  could  not  have  much  more 
suffering  to  undergo,  she  was  so  weak  when  he  last  saw 
her,  four  days  ago. 

^^Kiss  me  again,  dear  —  again,"  she  had  said,  "for  I 
feel  that  I  may  never  see  you  more." 

6.  "Ah,"  he  thought,  sadly,  " if  they  would  only  trust 
me  —  would  give  me  only  one  hour  of  liberty  —  how  I 
would  run  home  to  her  and  then  come  back  and  give 
myself  up  to  the  hands  that  hunger  for  my  life.  I  would 
give  my  word,  and  I  would  keep  it.  Why  not  ?  Save 
my  mother  —  and  she,  too,  dying  —  I  have  no  one  to 
weep  over  me  if  I  am  shot. 


H6  335  8^ 

^'To  see  her  again,  to  kiss  her  dear  lips  once  more, 
console,  encourage  her,  and  leave  her  hopeful  —  then  I 
would  face  death  bravely." 

He  was  in  the  midst  of  these  sad  reflections  when  the 
commandant,  followed  by  several  officers,  approached  him. 

7.  "  Now,  my  fine  fellow,  you  and  I  have  a  score  to 
settle ;  you  know  what  awaits  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  am  ready." 

''  Really  ?  So  ready  as  all  that  ?  You  are  not  afraid 
of  death?" 

"  Less  than  of  life.  I  have  seen  so  much  the  last  six 
months  —  such  awful  things  —  death  seems  better  than 
such  a  life." 

"  I  wager  you  would  not  hesitate  if  I  gave  you  your 
choice.  If  I  said :  '  Put  your  best  foot  foremost  and  show 
me  how  soon  you  can  be  out  of  sight,'  you  would  soon  be 
off,  1 11  warrant." 

8.  ''  Try  me,  sir,  try  me !  Put  me  to  the  proof ;  it 's 
worth  a  trial.  One  more  or  less  for  your  men  to  shoot, 
what  does  it  matter  ?  One  hour  of  freedom  only,  not 
more ;  you  shall  see  whether  I  will  keep  my  word,  and 
whether  I  am  afraid  to  die." 

"  Oh !  my  boy !  you  're  no  fool,  but  you  must  take  me 
for  one.  Once  free  and  far  away,  and  then  to  come  back 
to  be  shot  just  as  you  would  keep  an  ordinary  appoint- 
ment ?     You  will  hardly  get  me  to  believe  that." 


-^  336  8«^ 

"  Listen,  sir,  I  beg  of  you.  Perhaps  you  have  a  good 
mother ;  you  love  her,  your  mother,  more  than  aught  else 
in  the  whole  world.  If,  like  me,  you  were  just  going  to 
die,  your  last  thoughts  would  be  of  her.  And  you  would 
bless  the  man  who  gave  you  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her 
once  more. 

9.  "  Sir,  do  for  me  what  you  would  pray  others  to  do 
for  you.  Give  me  one  hour  of  liberty  and  I  will  give 
you  my  word  of  honor  to  return  and  give  myself  up.  Is 
life  itself  worth  a  promise  broken  ?  " 

While  he  was  speaking  the  commandant  was  pacing 
to  and  fro,  tugging  at  his  mustache  and  evidently  strug- 
gling hard  to  appear  unmoved. 

"^My  word,'"  he  murmured.  "This  urchin  talks  of 
^my  word'  as  though  he  were  a  Knight  of  the  Round 
Table!" 

10.  He  stopped  abruptly  in  front  of  his  prisoner  and 
asked  in  a  severe  tone,  "  Your  name  ?  " 

"Victor  Oury." 
"Age?" 

"  Sixteen  on  the  fifteenth  of  July  next." 
"  Where  does  your  mother  live  ?  " 
"At  Belleville." 

"  What  made  you  leave  her  to  follow  the  Commune  ?  " 

"The  thirty  sous  chiefly;   one  must  eat!      Then  the 

neighbors  and  my  comrades  threatened  to  shoot  me  if  I 


-»8  337  8«- 


VICTOR    BEFORE   THE    COMMANDANT 


did  not  inarch  with  them.  They  said  I  was  tall  enough 
to  carry  a  musket.  My  mother  was  afraid  of  them  and 
wept  and  prayed  me  to  obey  them." 

"  You  have  no  father,  then  ?  " 

"He  was  killed." 

"And  where?" 

"  At  Bourget,  fighting  for  his  country." 

11.    The    commandant    turned    towards    his    staff   as 


•^  338  8<^ 

though  he  would  consult  them  at  a  glance.  All  seemed 
moved  to  interest  and  pity. 

"  Well,  then !  it  is  understood,"  the  officer  said,  gravely, 
after  a  moment's  reflection.  "You  can  go  and  see  your 
mother.  You  have  given  me  your  word  of  honor  to  be 
back  again  in  an  hour.  I  shall  know  then  whether  you 
are  a  man  of  character  or  simply  a  cowardly  boy.  I  give 
you  until  evening.  If  you  are  not  here  by  eight  o'clock 
I  shall  say  that  you  are  a  braggart  and  care  more  for  life 
than  honor." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir.     At  eight  I  will  be  here." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  "    " 

"  Certain." 

"  We  shall  see  when  the  time  comes." 

12.  The  boy  would  have  thrown  his  arms  about  the 
officer  in  his  wild  joy  and  gratitude,  but  the  latter  re- 
pelled him  gently. 

"  No,  not  now,"  he  said.  "  This  evening,  if  you  return, 
I  will  embrace  you  —  in  front  of  the  firing  party,"  he 
added,  grimly.     "  Off  with  you !  " 

Victor  ran  like  a  hare.  The  officers  smiled  as  they 
watched  him  disappear.  Twenty  minutes  later  he  knocked 
at  his  mother's  door,  and  the  neighbor  who  was  tending 
her  opened  to  him.  She  started  and  exclaimed  when  she 
saw  him,  for  she  had  believed  him  dead.  He  would  have 
rushed  to  his  mother's  room,  but  the  woman  stopped  him. 


-i6  339  8«- 

13.  "Go  very  quietly/'  she  said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  she  is 
asleep.  She  has  been  very  ill  since  you  went  away,  but 
she  is  a  little  better  now.  The  doctor  said  yesterday  that 
if  she  could  sleep  she  would  soon  get  stronger ;  she  must 
not  be  awakened.  Poor  thing !  she  will  be  glad  to  see 
you,  for  she  has  asked  for  you  so  often.  When  she  was 
not  calling  you,  she  was  praying  the  good  Lord  to  preserve 
you  and  to  restore  peace  in  the  land." 

But  Victor  thought  he  heard  his  name  called  in  a  faint 
voice.  He  moved  on  tiptoe  towards  his  mother's  bed. 
He  had  not  been  deceived  — -  the  sick  woman's  eyes  were 
opened  wide. 

"  Victor !  my  boy !  "  she  cried  in  her  thin,  weak  voice. 
Without  a  word  he  lay  down  beside  her  and  her  arms 
closed  round  him  hungrily. 

14.  And  now  the  boy  who  had  faced  death  so  impas- 
sively could  do  naught  but  sob.  In  his  mother's  arms, 
he  became  a  child  once  more,  timid,  despairing. 

The  sick  woman,  who  seemed  to  gain  strength  from 
his  presence,  sought  in  vain  to  console  him. 

"  Why  do  you  distress  yourself  so,  my  child,  my 
best  beloved?"  she  asked.  "You  shall  never  leave 
me  again. 

"We  will  throw  that  hateful  uniform  away;  I  never 
want  to  see  it  more.  I  will  make  haste  and  get  well ;  I 
feel  so  much  stronger  since  you  came.     Soon  you  will  go 


-^  340  Q^ 

to  work  again,  and  you  will  grow  up  and  become  a  good 
man.  The  past  will  only  look  like  a  bad  dream  then,  and 
we  will  forget  it  completely." 

15.  Poor  soul,  how  should  she  know  that  her  picture 
of  a  bright  future  only  deepened  her  boy's  anguish  ?  She 
was  silent,  telling  herself  that  the  best  way  to  dry  tears 
is  to  let  them  flow  freely.  She  kissed  him  and  let  his 
weary  head  fall  back  on  the  pillow,  and  then  she  gave 
herself  up  to  dreams  of  happier  days  in  store  for  both  of 
them. 

Victor's  sobs  grew  less  frequent  and  less  violent,  and 
soon  nothing  could  be  heard  in  the  little  room  but  the 
regular  breathing  of  the  mother  and  her  child. 

Ashamed  of  his  weakness,  the  boy  forced  himself  into 
self-control,  and  when  he  raised  his  head  from  the  pillow, 
once  more  believing  himself  stronger  than  love  of  life, 
his  mother,  yielding  to  the  reaction  which  her  sudden  joy 
had  caused,  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

16.  The  sight  restored  his  energies.  A  kind  Provi- 
dence, he  thought,  had  wished  to  spare  him  .a  scene  which 
his  strength  and  courage  could  not  have  borne,  and  he 
resolved  to  go  at  once. 

Lightly  he  kissed  his  mother's  forehead,  gazing  at  her 
earnestly  for  a  few  moments.  She  seemed  to  smile,  he 
thought ;  then  he  went  out  hurriedly  and  returned  to  his 
post  as  quickly  as  he  had  come. 


-»8  341  8«- 

"  What !  so  soon  ?  "  the  commandant  cried,  astonished. 
The  good-hearted  man  had  hoped  that  the  boy  would  not 
return. 

"  But  I  had  promised !  " 

17.  "Doubtless,  but  why  be  in  such  a  hurry?  You 
might  have  stayed  with  your  mother  some  time  longer 
and  still  have  kept  your  word." 

"  Poor  mother !  After  a  scene  of  tears  which  seemed 
to  take  all  my  courage  —  tears  of  joy  for  her,  of  despair 
for  me  —  she  fell  asleep  so  calmly,  so  happily,  that  I  dare 
not  wait  for  her  to  wake.  She  fell  asleep  with  her  arms 
about  me,  thinking  I  should  never  leave  her  again ;  how 
could  I  have  told  her  the  truth  ?  Who  knows  whether  I 
should  have  had  the  courage  to  leave  her  after  doing  so  ? 
And  what  would  you  have  thought  of  me  if  I  had  not 
come  back  ? 

18.  "So  I  kissed  her  and  slipped  away  like  a  thief 
while  she  was  sleeping,  and  here  I  am.  Pray  God  may  be 
good  to  her  as  she  has  been  to  me.  I  have  one  more 
thing  to  ask,  —  to  finish  quickly." 

The  officer  looked  at  the  boy  with  mingled  pity  and 
admiration.     His  own  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  You  are  quite  resigned,  then ;  death  does  not  frighten 
you  ?  "  he  asked. 

Victor  answered  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  And  if  I  pardoned  you  ?  " 


-4Q  S42  8«*- 

"  You  would  save  my  mother's  life,  too,  and  I  would 
revere  you  as  a  second  father." 

19.  "  Well,  you  are  a  plucky  lad  and  you  have  not 
deserved  to  suffer  as  you  have  done.  You  shall  go. 
Embrace  me  first.  Now  go  and  go  quickly.  Join  your 
mother  and  love  her  always." 

As  he  spoke  the  last  few  words  the  officer  took  the  boy 
by  the  shoulders  and  pushed  him  gently  away. 

"It  really  would  have  been  a  pity,"  he  said  half  apolo- 
getically to  his  stafE  as  he  turned  towards  them. 

Victor  did  not  run  —  he  flew  home.  His  mother  was 
still  sleeping.  He  would  dearly  have  liked  to  cover  her 
with  kisses,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  wake  her,  although  her 
sleep  seemed  troubled.     He  lay  down  again  beside  her. 

20.  Suddenly  she  sat  up,  crying:  "Mercy!  Victor! 
My  child !  Oh !  Mercy !  —  ah  1  you  are  here ;  it  is  really 
you  ?  "  she  added,  waking. 

Her  thin,  weak  hands  wandered  all  over  him;  she 
pressed  him  close  to  her  and  rained  kisses  on  his  face. 
Then  she  was  shaken  by  convulsive  sobs  which  Victor 
could  not  calm. 

"  0  my  boy !  my  boy ! "  she  moaned,  "  I  dreamt  they 
were  going  to  shoot  you  !  " 


-j8  343  8<- 
JOHN   RIDD»S  ADVENTURE. 

By  R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 
From  "Lorna  Doone." 

Richard  D.  Blackmore  was  born  in  Longworth,  England,  in 
1825.  He  was  graduated  at  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  and  became 
a  lawyer. 

Blackmore  had  no  thought  of  becoming  a  writer,  but,  like  his 
most  famous  character,  John  Ridd,  he  loved  out-of-door  life.  The 
motherhood  of  nature  and  the  peaceful  beauty  of  the  English 
scenery  appealed  to  him  and  he  began  to  write  verses. 

In  1855  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  ten  years  later  his 
first  novel,  ^'  Clara  Vaughn,"  appeared. 

However,  it  was  not  until  1869,  when  Blackmore  published 
"Lorna  Doone,"  that  his  writings  received  attention.  This  book 
grew  rapidly  into  favor,  and  has  been  followed  by  other  novels. 

Blackmore  writes  his  stories  very  carefully,  describing  every 
feature  of  the  landscape  which  he  knows  so  well. 

His  characters  have  a  quaint  simplicity  and  are  brave  and 
daring. 

The  story  of  "  Lorna  Doone  "  is  filled  with  truest  feeling  and 
beautiful  thought. 

It  centers  about  John  Ridd,  who  is  Blackmore's  finest  hero.  He 
was  a  boy  whose  father  had  been  killed  by  some  highwaymen  by 
the  name  of  Doone.  In  the  following  selection  the  boy  tells  the 
story  of  one  of  his  adventures.  In  after  years  the  young  man's 
love  for  Lorna  Doone,  the  queen  of  a  wild  band,  makes  him  brave, 
and  he  rescues  Lorna  by  means  of  his  quick  wit  and  courage. 

in  quis'i  tive  car'bme 

fei^n'mg  loach'es 

dis  si'hled  breech^es 

(I) 


•4Q34A-Qh- 

1.  Being  resolved  to  catch  some  loaches,  whatever 
trouble  it  cost  me,  I  set  forth,  in  the  forenoon  of  St. 
Valentine's  Day,  1675.  When  I  had  traveled  two 
miles  or  so,  I  found  .a  good  stream  flowing  softly  into  the 
body  of  our  brook. 

I  buckled  my  breeches  far  up  from  the  knee,  expecting 
deeper  water,  and,  crossing  the  Lynn,  went  stoutly  up 
under  the  branches  which  hung  so  dark  on  the  Bag- 
worthy  River. 

2.  Every  moment  the  cold  of  the  water  got  worse 
and  worse,  until  I  was  fit  to  cry  with  it.  And  so,  in  a 
sorry  plight,  I  came  to  an  opening  in  the  bushes,  where 
a  great,  black  pool  lay  in  front  of  me,  whitened  with 
snow,  as  I  thought,  at  the  sides,  till  I  saw  it  was  only 
foam  froth.  Skirting  round  one  side,  I  came  to  a  sudden 
sight  and  marvel,  such  as  I  never  dreamed  of.  For,  lo  ! 
I  stood  at  the  foot  of  a  long,  pale  slide  of  water, 
coming  without  any  break  for  a  hundred  yards  or  more, 
and  fenced  on  either  side  with  cliff,  sheer  and  straight 
and  shining.  The  water  neither  ran  nor  fell  nor  leaped 
with  any  spouting,  but  made  one  even  slope  of  it. 

3.  Then  said  I  to  myself :  "  John  Ridd,  these  trees  and 
pools  and  lonesome  rocks  and  setting  of  the  sunlight  are 
making  a  grewsome  coward  of  thee.  Shall  I  go  back  to 
my  mother  so,  and  be  called  her  fearless  boy  ?  " 

But  that  which  saved  me  from  turning  back  was  a 


-»6  345  8«^ 

strange,  inquisitive  desire  to  know  what  made  the  watei 
come  down  like  that  and  what  there  was  at  the  top  of  it. 
I  crawled  along  over  the  fork  of  rocks  where  the 
water  had  scooped  the  stone  out,  and,  shunning  thus 
the  ledge  from  whence  it  rose  like  the  mane  of  a  white 
horse  into  the  broad,  black  pool,  softlj  I  let  my  feet 
into  the  dip  and  rush  of  the  torrent. 

4.  The  green  wave  came  down  like  great  bottles  upon 
me,  and  my  legs  were  gone  from  under  me  in  a  moment. 

But  before  I  knew  aught,  except  that  I  must  die  with 
a  roar  of  water  upon  me,  my  fork,  praise  G-od,  stuck  fast 
in  the  rock,  and  I  was  borne  up  upon  it. 

To  my  great  dismay  and  affright,  I  saw  that  no 
choice  was  left  me  now  except  that  I  must  climb  some- 
how up  that  hill  of  water  or  else  be  washed  down  into 
the  pool  and  whirl  around  it  till  it  drowned  me ;  for 
there  was  no  chance  of  going  back  by  the  way  I  had 
gone  down  into  it. 

5.  Having  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  I  grasped  the  good 
loach  stick  and  began  my  course  up  the  fearful  torrent 
way. 

How  I  went  carefully,  step  by  step,  never  daring  to 
straighten  my  knees,  is  more  than  I  can  tell  clearly. 
The  greatest  danger  of  all  was  just  where  I  saw  no 
jeopardy,  but  ran  up  a  patch  of  black  ooze  weed  in  a. 
very  boastful  manner,  being  now  not  far  from  the  summit. 


-iQ  346  8«*- 

Here  I  fell  and  was  like  to  have  broken  my  kneecap, 
and  the  torrent  got  hold  of  my  other  leg  while  I  was 
indulging  the  bruised  one.  And  then  a  knotting  of 
cramp  disabled  me,  and  all  of  my  body  was  sliding.  But 
my  elbow  caught  in  a  hole  in  a  rock,  and  so  I  managed 
to  start  again. 

6.  Now,  being  in  the  most  dreadful  fright  because  I 
was  so  near  the  top  and  hope  was  beating  within  me, 
I  labored  hard  with  both  legs  and  arms  going  like  a 
mill.  At  last  the  rush  of  forked  water  drove  me  into 
the  middle. 

Then  I  made  up  my  mind  to  die  at  last ;  only  it 
did  seem  such  a  pity  after  fighting  so  long  to  give  in. 
The  light  was  coming  upon  me,  and  again  I  fought 
toward  it,  when  suddenly  I  felt  fresh  air  and  fell  forward 
into  the  sunlight. 

7.  When  I  came  to  myself  again  a  little  girl  was 
kneeling  at  my  side,  rubbing  my  forehead  tenderly  with 
a  dock  leaf  and  a  handkerchief. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  "  she  whispered  softly,  as  I  opened 
my  eyes  and  looked  at  her;  "now  you  will  try  to  be 
better,  won't  you  ?  " 

I  had  never  heard  so  sweet  a  sound  as  came  from 
between  her  bright  red  lips,  while  there  she  knelt  and 
gazed  at  me ;  neither  had  I  ever  seen  anything  so 
beautiful  as  the  large,  dark  eyes  intent  upon  me,  full  of 


-»6  347  8*- 


JOHN     RIDD    AND     LORNA    DOONE 


pity  and  wonder.  Then  I  wandered  with  my  hazy  eyes 
down  the  black  shower  of  her  hair  ;  and  where  it  fell 
on  the  turf,  among  it,  like  an  early  star,  was  the  first 
primrose  of  the  season. 

8.  And  since  that  day  I  think  of  her  through  all  the 
rough  storms  of  my  life  when  I  see  an  early  primrose. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  she  said,  "  and  how  your  feet 
are  bleeding !  oh,  I  must  tie  them  up  for  you !  And  no 
shoes  nor  stockings !  Is  your  mother  very  poor,  poor 
boy?" 

"  No,"  I  said,  being  vexed  at  this ;  "we  are  rich  enough 
to  buy  all  this  great  meadow  if  we  chose ;  and  here  are 
my  shoes  and  stockings." 


■^  348  8^ 

^^  Why,  they  are  quite  as  wet  as  your  feet.  Please  to 
let  me  manage  them ;  I  will  do  it  very  softly." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  much  of  that/'  I  replied.  "But 
how  you  are  looking  at  me !  I  never  saw  any  one  like 
you  before.  My  name  is  John  Ridd.  What  is  your 
name  ?  " 

9.  "  Lorna  Doone,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  as  if 
afraid  of  it,  and  hanging  her  head  so  that  I  could  see 
only  her  forehead  and  eyelashes ;  "  if  you  please,  my 
name  is  Lorna  Doone  ;  and  I  thought  you  must  have 
known  it." 

Then  I  stood  up  and  touched  her  hand  and  tried  to 
make  her  look  at  me;  but  she  only  turned  away  and 
her  blushes  turned  into  tears,  and  her  tears  to  long, 
low  sobs. 

"Don't  cry,"  I  said,  "whatever  you  do.  I  am  sure 
you  have  never  done  any  harm.  I  will  give  you  all  my 
fish,  Lorna,  and  catch  some  more  for  mother ;  only  don't 
be  angry  with  me." 

10.  Here  was  I,  a  yeoman's  boy,  a  yeoman  every  inch 
of  me  ;  and  there  was  she,  a  lady  born  and  dressed  by 
people  of  rank  and  taste,  who  took  pride  in  her  beauty. 
Though  some  of  her  frock  was  touched  with  wet,  her 
dress  was  pretty  enough  for  the  queen  of  all  the  angels ! 
All  from  her  waist  to  her  neck  was  white,  and  the  dark, 
soft  weeping  of  her  hair  and  the  shadowy  light  of  her 


-^  340  8*- 

eyes,  like  a  wood  rayed  through  with   sunset,  made  it 
seem  yet  whiter. 

Seeing  how  I  heeded  her,  she  turned  to  the  stream 
in  a  bashful  manner  and  began  to  watch  the  water. 

11.  I,  for  my  part,  being  vexed  at  her  behavior  to  me, 
took  up  all  my  things  and  made  a  fuss  about  it  to  let 
her  know  I  was  going.  But  she  did  not  call  me  back 
as  I  had  made  sure  she  would  do  ;  moreover,  I  knew 
that  to  try  the  descent  was  almost  certain  death  to  me, 
so  at  the  mouth  I  came  back  to  her  and  said : 

"Lorna." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  were  gone,"  she  answered ;  ^^  why 
did  you  ever  come  here  ?  Do  you  know  what  the  robber 
band  would  do  to  us  if  they  found  you  here  with  me  ? 
They  would  kill  us  both  outright  and  bury  us  here  by 
the  water." 

"  But  why  should  they  kHl  me  ?  " 

12.  '^Because  you  have  found  the  way  up  here, 
and  they  never  could  believe  it.  Now,  please  to  go  ; 
oh,  please  to  go  !  They  will  kill  us  both  in  a 
moment." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Lorna,  I  never  saw  one  like  you,  and 
I  must  come  back  again  to-morrow,  and  so  must  you ;  and 
I  will  bring  you  such  lots  of  things  —  there  are  apples 
and  a  thrush  I  caught  with  only  one  leg  broken  and  — 
only  put  your  hand  in  mine  —  what  little  things  they 


-^  350  8«^ 

are,  Lorna!  —  and  I  will  bring  you   the   loveliest  dog; 
I  will  show  you  just  how  long  he  is." 
"Hush!" 

13.  A  shout  came  down  the  valley;  and  all  my  heart 
was  trembling  like  water  after  sunset,  and  Lorna's 
face  was  altered  from  pleasant  play  to  terror.  She 
looked  up  at  me  with  such  a  power  of  weakness  that  I 
at  once  made  up  my  mind  to  save  her  or  die  with  her. 
A  tingle  went  through  all  my  bones,  and  I  only  longed 
for  my  carbine.  The  little  girl  took  courage  from  me, 
and  put  her  cheek  quite  close  to  mine. 

"  Come  with  me  down  the  waterfall.  I  can  carry  you 
easily ;   and  mother  will  take  care  of  you." 

" No,  no,"  she  cried,  as  I  took  her  up  ;  "I  will  tell  you 
what  to  do.  They  are  only  looking  for  me.  You  see 
that  hole,  that  hole  there  ?  " 

14.  She  pointed  to  a  little  niche  in  the  rock  which 
verged  the  meadow  about  fifty  yards  away  from  us.  In 
the  fading  of  the  twilight  I  could  just  descry  it. 

"  Yes,  I  see  it ;  but  they  will  see  me  crossing  the  grass 
to  get  there." 

"  Look !  look !  "  She  could  hardly  speak.  "  There  is 
a  way  out  from  the  top  of  it.  Oh,  here  they  come ;  I 
can  see  them." 

The  little  maid  turned  as  white  as  the  snow  which 
hung  on  the  rocks  above  her,  and  then  she  began  to  sob 


■^  351  8«^ 

aloud,  but  I  drew  her  behind  the  withy  bushes  and  close 
down  to  the  water.  Here  they  could  not  see  either  of 
us  from  the  upper  valley,  and  might  have  sought  a  long 
time  for  us. 

15.  Crouching  in  that  hollow  nest,  I  saw  a  dozen  fierce 
men  come  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  water,  not 
bearing  any  firearms,  but  looking  lax  and  jovial,  as  if 
they  were  come  from  riding. 

"  Queen !  queen  !  "  they  were  shouting  here  and  there 
and  now  and  then.     "  Where  is  our  little  queen  gone  ?  " 

"  They  always  call  me  '  queen/  and  I  am  to  be  queen 
by  and  by,"  Lorna  whispered  to  me,  with  her  little  heart 
beating  against  me ;  "  oh,  they  are  crossing  by  the  timber 
and  there,  and  then  they  are  sure  to  see  us.'' 

"  Stop,"  said  I ;  "  now  I  see  what  to  do.  I  must  get 
into  the  water,  and  you  must  go  to  sleep." 

"To  be  sure,  yes,  away  in  the  meadow  there.  But 
how  bitter  cold  it  will  be  for  you  !  " 

16.  "Now  mind  you  never  come  again,"  she  whispered 
over  her  shoulder  as  she  crept  away.  "  Only  I  shall  come 
sometimes." 

I  crept  into  the  water  and  lay  down  with  my  head 
between  two  blocks  of  stone.  The  dusk  was  deepening 
between  the  hills,  and  a  white  mist  lay  on  the  river; 
I  could  see  every  ripple  and  twig  and  glazing  of  twilight 
above  it  as  bright  as  in  a  picture;  so  that  to  my  ignorance 


-»8  352  8«- 

there  seemed  no  chance  at  all  but  what  the  men  must 
find  me. 

For  all  this  time  they  were  shouting  and  making  such 
a  hullabaloo  that  the  rocks  all  round  the  valley  rung. 

17.  I  was  now  desperate,  between  fear  and  wretched- 
ness, till  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  little  maid  whose 
beauty  and  whose  kindliness  had  made  me  yearn  to  be 
with  her.  And  then  I  knew  that  for  her  sake  I  was 
bound  to  be  brave  and  hide  myself.  She  was  lying 
beneath  a  rock,  feigning  to  be  fast  asleep. 

Presently  one  of  the  great  rough  men  came  round  a 
corner  upon  her,  and  there  he  stopped  and  gazed  awhile 
at  her  fairness  and  her  innocence.  Then  he  caught  her 
up  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  Here  our  queen  is !  Here  's  the  queen ;  here  's  the 
captain's  daughter !  "  he  shouted  to  his  comrades ;  "  fast 
asleep !  Now  I  have  first  claim  to  her,  and  no  one  else 
shall  touch  the  child.     Back,  all  of  you!  " 

18.  He  sat  her  dainty  little  form  upon  his  great,  square 
shoulder  and  her  narrow  feet  in  one  broad  hand ;  and  so  in 
triumph  marched  away,  with  the  purple  velvet  of  her  skirt 
ruffling  in  his  long  black  beard  and  the  silken  length  of  her 
hair  fetched  out,  like  a  cloud  by  the  wind,  behind  her. 

Going  up  that  darkened  glen,  little  Lorna  turned  and 
put  up  a  hand  to  me  and  I  put  up  a  hand  to  her,  in 
the  thick  of  the  mist  and  the  willows. 


-4es5S9«- 

She  was  gone,  my  little  dear,  and  when  I  got  over 
my  fright  I  longed  to  have  more  to  say  to  her.  Her 
voice  to  me  was  like  a  sweet,  silver  bell  intoned  to  the 
small  chords  of  a  harp. 

I  crept  into  a  bush  for  warmth  and  rubbed  my  shiver- 
ing legs.  Then,  as  daylight  sunk  below  the  forget-me-not 
of  stars,  I  knew  that  now  must  be  my  time  to  get  away. 

19.  Through  the  dusk  I  had  trouble  to  see  the 
niche  in  the  cliff  at  even  five  land  yards  of  distance; 
nevertheless,  I  entered  and  held  on  by  some  dead  fern 
stems  and  did  hope  that  no  one  would  shoot  me. 

But  my  joy  was  like  to  have  ended  in  sad  grief.  For, 
hearing  a  noise  in  front  of  me,  I  felt  myself  going  down 
some  deep  passage  into  a  pit  of  darkness.  Then,  without 
knowing  how,  I  was  leaning  over  a  night  of  water. 

20.  Suddenly  a  robin  sang  in  the  brown  fern  and 
ivy  behind  me.  I  took  it  for  our  little  Annie's  voice 
—  for  she  could  call  any  robin  —  and  gathering  quick, 
warm  comfort,  sprang  up  the  steep  way  toward  the 
starlight.  Climbing  back,  as  the  stones  glided  down, 
I  heard  the  cold,  greedy  wave  go  lapping,  like  a  blind, 
black  dog,  into  the  distance  of  arches  and  hollow  depths 
of  darkness. 


THE  COAST  GUARD. 

By  EMILY  HUNTINGTON  MILLER. 

Do  you  ask  me  what  I  am  seeing 

While  I  watch  the  embers  glow. 
And  list  to  the  wild  wind  howling 

As  it  drives  the  winter  snow  ? 
I  see,  away  to  the  eastward, 

The  line  of  a  storm-beat  coast, 
And  I  hear  the  tread  of  the  hurrying  waves, 

Like  the  tramp  of  a  mailed  host. 

And  up  and  down  in  the  darkness, 

And  over  the  frozen  sand, 
I  hear  the  men  of  the  coast  guard 

Pacing  along  the  strand,  — 
Beaten  by  storm  and  tempest 

And  drenched  by  the  pelting  rain,— ^ 
From  the  shores  of  Carolina 

To  the  wind-swept  bays  of  Maine. 

No  matter  what  storms  are  raging, 
No  matter  how  wild  the  night, 

The  gleam  of  their  swinging  lanterns 
Shines  out  with  a  friendly  light. 


-^  355  S«- 

And  many  a  shipwrecked  sailor 

Thanks  God  with  his  gasping  breath 

For  the  sturdy  arms  of  the  surfmen 
That  drew  him  away  from  death. 

And  so,  when  the  wind  is  wailing 

And  the  air  grows  dim  with  sleet, 
I  think  of  the  fearless  watchers 

Pacing  along  their  beat. 
I  think  of  a  wreck,  fast  breaking 

In  the  surf  of  a  rocky  shore, 
And  the  lifeboat  leaping  onward 

To  the  stroke  of  the  bending  oar. 

I  hear  the  shouts  of  the  sailors, 

The  boom  of  the  frozen  sail, 
And  the  crack  of  the  icy  halyards 

Straining  against  the  gale. 
"  Courage !  "  the  captain  trumpets, 

"  They  are  sending  help  from  land ! ' 
God  bless  the  men  of  the  coast  guard 

And  hold  their  lives  in  His  hand  I 


^856  81" 

FOOTBALL   AT   RUGBY. 

By  THOMAS  HUGHES. 
From  "  Tom  Brown's  School  Days." 

"Tom  Brown's  School  Days "  and  "Tom  Brown  at  Oxford''  are 
two  of  the  best  books  ever  written  for  boys  and  young  men. 

The  author,  Thomas  Hughes,  was  born  at  Newbury,  England,  in 
1823.  He  spent  several  years  at  Rugby  under  the  mastership  of 
the  famous  Dr.  Arnold,  continuing  his  education  at  Oxford. 

This  selection  is  from  "  Tom  Brown's  School  Days,"  —  a  graphic 
description  of  life  at  Eugby,  —  and  the  hero  is  a  manly,  sturdy 
English  boy. 

Mr.  Hughes  was  a  lawyer  as  well  as  a  writer  and  was  deeply 
interested  in  aiding  the  common  people. 

gi  gan'tic  cred'it  a  bly 

pre  die  a'ment  pre  pos'i  tor 

1.  "But  why  do  you  wear  white  trousers  in  Novem- 
ber?" said  Tom.  He  had  been  struck  by  this  peculiarity 
in  the  costume  of  almost  all  the  schoolhouse  boys. 

"  Why,  bless  us,  don't  you  know  ?  No,  I  forgot. 
Why,  to-day 's  the  schoolhouse  match.  Our  house 
plays  the  whole  of  the  school  at  football.  And  we  all 
wear  white  trousers  to  show  'em  we  don't  care  for 
kicks  on  the  shins.  You  're  in  luck  to  come  to-day. 
You  will  see  a  great  match ;  and  Brooke 's  going  to 
let  me  play  in  quarters.      That 's   more  than  he  '11  do 


-^357  8«- 

for  any  other  low-school  boy,  except  James  and  he's 
fourteen." 

"Who's  Brooke?" 

"  Why,  that  big  fellow  that  called  over  at  dinner,  to 
be  sure.  He  's  head  of  the  schoolhouse  side,  and  the 
best  kick  and  charger  in  Rugby." 

2.  Tom  followed  East  across  the  level  ground  till  they 
came  to  a  sort  of  gigantic  gallows  of  two  poles  eighteen 
feet  high,  fixed  upright  in  the  ground  some  fourteen 
feet  apart,  with  a  crossbar  running  from  one  to  the 
other,  at  the  height  of  ten  feet  or  thereabouts. 

''  This  is  one  of  the  goals,"  said  East,  "  and  you  see 
the  other,  across  there,  right  opposite,  under  the  doctor's 
wall.  Well,  the  match  is  for  the  best  of  three  goals. 
Whichever  side  kicks  two  goals  wins ;  and  it  won't  do, 
you  see,  just  to  kick  the  ball  through  these  posts.  It 
must  go  over  the  crossbar ;  any  height  '11  do,  so  long  as 
it 's  between  the  posts. 

3.  "  You  '11  have  to  stay  in  goal  to  touch  the  ball  when 
it  rolls  behind  the  posts,  because  if  the  other  side  touch  it 
they  have  a  try  at  goal.  Then  we  fellows  in  quarters, 
we  play  just  about  in  front  of  goal  here,  and  have  to 
turn  the  ball  and  kick  it  back  before  the  big  fellows  on 
the  other  side  can  follow  it  up.  And  in  front  of  us,  all 
the  big  fellows  play,  and  that's  where  the  scrimmages 
are  mostly." 


Next  minute  East  cried  out :  "  Hurrah !  here  's  the 
punt-about ;    come  along  and  try  your  hand  at  a  kick." 

The  punt-about  is  the  practice  ball,  which  is  just 
brought  out  and  kicked  about  anyhow  from  one  boy  to 
another  before  callings-over  and  dinner  and  at  other  odd 
times.  They  joined  the  boys  who  had  brought  it  out, 
—  all  small  schoolhouse  fellows,  friends  of  East. 

4.  Tom  had  the  pleasure  of  trying  his  skill,  and 
performed  very  creditably,  after  first  driving  his  foot 
three  inches  into  the  ground  and  then  nearly  kicking 
his  leg  into  the  air  in  vigorous  efforts  to  accomplish  a 
drop-kick  after  the  manner  of  East. 

The  crowd  thickened  as  three  o'clock  approached; 
and  when  the  hour  struck,  one  himdred  and  fifty  boys 
were  hard  at  work. 

"  Hold  the  punt-about !  "  "  To  the  goals !  "  are  the 
cries  ;  and  the  whole  mass  of  boys  moves  up  towards  the 
two  goals,  dividing  as  they  go,  into  three  bodies. 

That  little  band  on  the  left,  consisting  of  from  fifteen 
to  twenty  boys  —  Tom  amongst  them  —  who  are  making 
for  the  goal  under  the  schoolhouse  wall,  are  the  school- 
boys who  are  not  to  play-up  and  have  to  stay  in  goal. 
The  larger  body  moving  to  the  island  goal  are  the  school- 
boys in  a  like  predicament. 

5.  The  great  mass  in  the  middle  are  the  players-up, 
both  sides  mingled   together;    they  are   hanging  their 


jackets  and,  all  who  mean  real  work,  their  hats,  waist- 
coats, neck-handkerchiefs,  and  braces  on  the  railings 
round  the  small  trees  ;  and  there  thej  go  by  twos  and 
threes  up  to  their  respective  grounds. 

And  now  that  the  two  sides  have  fairly  sundered,  and 
each  occupies  its  own  ground  and  we  get  a  good  look 
at  them,  what  absurdity  is  this  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say 
that  those  fifty  or  sixty  boys  in  white  trousers,  many  of 
them  quite  small,  are  going  to  play  that  huge  mass  opposite  ? 

Indeed  I  do ;  they  're  going  to  try,  at  any  rate,  and 
won't  make  such  a  bad  fight  of  it,  either,  mark  my  word ; 
for  has  n't  old  Brooke  won  the  toss  with  his  lucky  half- 
penny, and  got  choice  of  goals  and  kick-off  ? 

6.  The  new  ball  you  may  see  lie  there  quite  by  itself 
in  the  middle,  pointing  towards  the  school  or  island  goal ; 
in  another  minute  it  will  be  well  on  its  way  there. 

Now  look,  there  is  a  slight  move  forward  of  the 
schoolhouse  wings,  a  shout  of  "  Are  you  ready  ?  "  and  a 
loud  affirmative  reply. 

Old  Brooke  takes  half  a  dozen  quick  steps,  and  away 
goes  the  ball  spinning  towards  the  school  goal ;  seventy 
yards  before  it  touches  ground  and  at  no  point  above 
twelve  or  fifteen  feet  high,  —  a  model  kick-off,  —  and 
the  schoolhouse  cheer  and  rush  on.  The  ball  is  returned, 
and  they  meet  it  and  drive  it  back  amongst  the  masses 
of  the  school  already  in  motion. 


-^  360  8«^ 

7.  Then  the  two  sides  close,  and  you  can  see  nothing 
for  minutes  but  a  swaying  crowd  of  boys,  at  one  point 
violently  agitated  ;  that  is,  where  the  ball  is,  and  there 
are  the  keen  players  to  be  met  and  the  glory  and  the 
hard  knocks  to  be  got.  You  hear  the  dull  thud,  thud  of 
the  ball  and  the  shouts  of  "  Off  your  side  !  "  "  Down  with 
him ! ''  "  Put  him  over ! "  "  Bravo !  " 

But  see  !  it  has  broken ;  the  ball  is  driven  out  on 
the  schoolhouse  side,  and  a  rush  of  the  school  carries  it 
past  the  schoolhouse  players-up.  ''  Look  out  in  quarters," 
Brooke's  and  twenty  other  voices  ring  out;  no  need 
to  call,  though. 

8.  The  schoolhouse  captain  of  quarters  has  caught  it  on 
the  bound,  dodges  the  foremost  schoolboys  who  are  head- 
ing the  rush,  and  sends  it  back  with  a  good  drop-kick 
well  into  the  enemy's  country. 

And  then  follows  rush  upon  rush  and  scrimmage 
upon  scrimmage,  the  ball  now  driven  through  into  the 
schoolhouse  quarters  and  now  into  the  school  goal; 
for  the  schoolhouse  have  not  lost  the  advantage  which 
the  kick-off  and  a  slight  wind  gave  them  at  the  outset, 
and  are  slightly  "  penning  "  their  adversaries. 

9.  Three-quarters  of  an  hour  are  gone;  first  winds 
are  failing,  and  weight  and  numbers  beginning  to  tell. 
Yard  by  yard  the  schoolhouse  boys  have  been  driven 
back,  contesting  every  inch  of  ground. 


-^361  8«- 

The  bulldogs  are  the  color  of  mother  earth  from 
shoulder  to  ankle,  except  young  Brooke,  who  has  a 
marvelous  knack  of  keeping  his  legs.  The  schoolhouse 
boys  are  being  ^^ penned"  in  their  turn,  and  now  the 
ball  is  behind  their  goal  under  the  doctor's  wall. 

We  get  a  minute's  breathing  time  before  old  Brooke 
kicks  out,  and  he  gives  the  word  to  play  strongly  for 
touch  by  the  three  trees.  Away  goes  the  ball  and  the 
bulldogs  after  it,  and  in  another  minute  there  is  a  shout 
of  "  In-touch !  "  "  Our  ball !  "  Now 's  your  time,  old 
Brooke,  while  your  men  are  still  fresh. 

10.  He  stands  with  the  ball  in  his  hand,  while  the  two 
sides  form  in  deep  lines  opposite  one  another.  He  must 
strike  it  straight  out  between  them.  The  lines  are 
thickest  close  to  him,  but  young  Brooke  and  two  or  three 
of  his  men  are  shifting  up  further,  where  the  opposite 
line  is  weak. 

Old  Brooke  strikes  it  out  straight  and  strong  and  it 
falls  opposite  his  brother.  Hurrah !  that  rush  has  taken 
it  right  through  the  school  line  and  away  past  the  three 
trees  far  into  their  quarters,  and  young  Brooke  and 
the  bulldogs  are  close  upon  it. 

11.  The  school  leaders  rush  back  shouting  "Look  out  in 
goal !  "  and  strain  every  nerve  to  catch  him,  but  they  are 
after  the  fleetest  foot  in  Rugby.  There  they  go  straight 
for  the  school  goal  posts,  quarters  scattering  before  them. 


One  after  another  the  bulldogs  go  down,  but  young 
Brooke  holds  on.  "  He  is  down  ! "  No  !  a  long  stagger, 
but  the  danger  is  past ;  that  was  the  shock  of  Crew,  the 
most  dangerous  of  dodgers. 

And  now  he  is  close  to  the  school  goal,  the  ball  not 
three  yards  before  him.     There  is  a  hurried  rush  of  the 


A  FOOTBALL  GAME 


school  fags  to  the  spot,  but  no  one  throws  himself  on  the 
ball  —  the  only  chance  —  and  young  Brooke  has  touched 
it  right  under  the  school  goal  posts. 

12.  Old  Brooke,  of  course,  will  kick  out  the  goal,  but 
who  shall  catch  and  place  it  ?    Call  Crab  Jones. 

Here  he  comes  sauntering  along  with  a  straw  in  his 
mouth,  the  queerest,  coolest  fish  in  Rugby.     If  he  were 


-^  363  8«*- 

tumbled  into  the  moon  this  minute  he  would  just  pick 
himself  up  without  taking  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets  or 
turning  a  hair. 

It  is  a  moment  when  the  boldest  charger's  heart  beats 
quick.  Old  Brooke  stands  with  the  ball  under  his  arm 
motioning  the  school  back ;  he  will  not  kick  out  till  they 
are  all  in  goal,  behind  the  posts.  They  are  all  edging 
forward,  inch  by  inch,  to  get  nearer  for  the  rush  at  Crab 
Jones,  who  stands  there  in  front  of  old  Brooke  to  catch 
the  ball. 

13.  If  they  can  reach  and  destroy  him  before  he  catches, 
the  danger  is  over ;  and  with  one  and  the  same  rush  they 
will  carry  it  right  away  to  the  schoolhouse  goal.  Fond 
hope  !    it  is  kicked  out  and  caught  beautifully. 

Crab  strikes  his  heel  into  the  ground  to  mark  the  spot 
where  the  ball  was  caught,  beyond  which  the  school  line 
may  not  advance  ;  but  there  they  stand,  five  deep,  ready 
to  rush  the  moment  the  ball  touches  the  ground. 

Take  plenty  of  room  !  don't  give  the  rush  a  chance  of 
reaching  you !  place  it  true  and  steady !  Trust  Crab 
Jones.  He  has  made  a  small  hole  with  his  heel  for  the 
ball  to  lie  on,  by  which  he  is  resting  on  one  knee,  with 
his  eye  on  old  Brooke.  "Now  !  "  Crab  places  the  ball 
at  the  word,  old  Brooke  kicks,  and  it  rises  slowly  and 
truly  as  the  school  rush  forward. 

14.  Then  a  moment's  pause,  while  both  sides  look  up 


-^364  St- 
at the  spinning  ball.  There  it  flies  straight  between 
the  two  posts,  some  five  feet  above  the  crossbar,  an 
unquestioned  goal;  and  a  shout  of  real,  genuine  joy 
rings  out  from  the  schoolhouse  players-up  and  a  faint 
echo  of  it  comes  over  the  close  from  the  goal-keepers 
under  the  doctor's  wall. 

A  goal  in  the  first  hour  —  such  a  thing  has  n't  been 
done  in  the  schoolhouse  match  this  five  years. 

15.  "  Over !  "  is  the  cry  ;  the  two  sides  change  goals, 
and  the  schoolhouse  goal-keepers  come  threading  their  way 
across  through  the  masses  of  the  school,  the  most  openly 
triumphant  of  them,  amongst  whom  is  Tom,  a  school- 
house  boy  of  two  hours'  standing,  getting  their  ears  boxed 
in  the  transit. 

Tom  is  indeed  excited  beyond  measure,  and  it  is  all 
the  sixth-form  boy  —  kindest  and  safest  of  goal-keepers 
—  has  been  able  to  do  to  keep  him  from  rushing  out 
whenever  the  ball  has  been  near  their  goal.  So  he 
holds  him  by  his  side  and  instructs  him  in  the  science 
of  touching. 


16.  And  now  the  last  minutes  are  come,  and  the 
school  gather  for  their  last  rush,  every  boy  of  the 
hundred  and  twenty  who  has  a  run  left  in  him.  Reckless 
of  the  defense  of  their  own  goal,  on  they  come  across  the 


-»e  365  8«- 

level  big-side  ground  —  the  ball  well  down  amongst 
them  —  straight  for  our  goal,  like  the  column  of  the 
Old  Guard  up  the  slope  at  Waterloo. 

All  former  charges  have  been  child's  play  to  this. 
Warner  and  Hedge  have  met  them,  but  still  on  they 
come.  The  bulldogs  rush  in  for  the  last  time  ;  they  are 
hurled  over  or  carried  back,  striving  hand,  foot,  and 
eyelids. 

17.  Old  Brooke  comes  sweeping  round  the  skirts  of  the 
play,  and,  turning  short  round,  picks  out  the  very  best 
heart  of  the  scrimmage  and  plunges  in.  It  wavers  for 
a  moment — he  has  the  ball!  No,  it  has  passed  him, 
and  his  voice  rings  out  clear  over  the  advancing  tide  : 
"  Look  out  in  goal ! '' 

Crab  Jones  catches  it  for  a  moment,  but  before  he  can 
kick,  the  rush  is  upon  him  and  passes  over  him,  and  he 
picks  himself  up  behind  them  with  his  straw  in  his 
mouth,  a  little  dirtier,  but  as  cool  as  ever. 

The  ball  rolls  slowly  in  behind  the  schoolhouse  goal, 
not  three  yards  in  front  of  a  dozen  of  the  biggest  school 
player  s-up. 

18.  There  stands  the  schoolhouse  prepositor,  safest 
of  goal-keepers,  and  Tom  Brown  by  his  side,  who  has 
learned  his  trade  by  this  time.  Now  is  your  time,  Tom. 
The  blood  of  all  the  Browns  is  up,  and  the  two  rush  in 
together  and  throw  themselves  on  the  ball,  under  the 


-^  366  9*- 

very  feet  of  the  advancing  column,  the  prepositor  on 
his  hands  and  knees  arching  his  back,  and  Tom  all  along 
on  his  face. 

Over  them  topple  the  leaders  of  the  rush,  shooting  over 
the  back  of  the  prepositor,  but  falling  flat  on  Tom  and 
knocking  all  the  wind  out  of  his  small  body. 

"  Our  ball,"  says  the  prepositor,  rising  with  his  prize ; 
"but  get  up  there;  there's  a  little  fellow  under ^ you." 
They  are  hauled  and  roll  off  him  and  Tom  is  discovered, 
a  motionless  body. 

19.  Old  Brooke  picks  him  up.  "  Stand  back  !  give 
him  air!"  says  he,  and  then,  feeling  his  limbs,  adds: 
''  No  bones  broken.    How  do  you  feel,  young  'un  ?  " 

"Hah-hah,"  gasps  Tom,  as  his  wind  comes  back; 
"  pretty  well,  thank  you  —  all  right." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  says  Brooke.  ''  Oh,  it 's  Brown ;  he  's 
a  new  boy.    I  know  him,"  says  East,  coming  up. 

"  Well,  he  is  a  plucky  youngster,  and  will  make  a 
player,"  says  Brooke. 

And  five  o'clock  strikes.  "  No  side "  is  called,  and 
the  first  day  of  the  schoolhouse  match  is  over. 


-49  367  B*- 

THE  ENCOUNTER  WITH  THE  PANTHER. 

By  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

James  Fenimore  Cooper,  an  eminent  American  novelist,  was 
born  in  Burlington,  N".  J.,  in  September,  1789. 

His  early  life  was  spent  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Otsego,  New 
York,  where  his  father  lived  while  the  future  novelist  was  very 
young.  At  that  time  this  tract  of  country  was  a  wilderness,  and 
the  boy  became  familiar  with  the  hunters  and  Indians  who  lived 
upon  the  frontier. 

His  father.  Judge  Cooper,  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  culture, 
and  sent  his  boy  to  Yale  University  at  the  early  age  of  thirteen. 
Young  Cooper  spent  three  years  there  and  then  entered  the  navy, 
remaining  in  this  service  until  his  marriage  in  1811,  when  he 
turned  his  attention  to  writing. 

There  were  almost  no  American  novels  at  this  time,  and  the 
public  were  enthusiastic  over  the  author's  tales  of  Indian  life  and 
adventures  on  the  sea. 

Cooper's  works  consist  of  thirty-two  volumes,  the  most  popular 
of  which  are  "  The  Pilot,"  "  The  Spy,"  "  The  Prairie,"  and  "  The 
Last  of  the  Mohicans."  He  died  at  Cooperstown,  in  September,  1851. 

ma  liff'ni  ty  res  ur  rec'tion 

m  an'i  mate  e  las  tiQ^i  ty 

res  pi  ra'tion  ex'tri  cate 

(sh) 

dis  quaVi  fled  c5n  vulsed' 

1.  The  day  was  becoming  warm,  and  the  girls  plunged 
more  deeply  into  the  forest.  Every  tall  pine  and  every 
shrub  or  flower  called  forth  some  simple  expression  of 
admiration. 


h8  368  St- 
ill this  manner  they  proceeded  along  the  margin  of 
the  precipice,  catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  placid 
Otsego,  when  Elizabeth  suddenly  started  and  exclaimed : 

2.  "Listen!  there  are  the  cries  of  a  child  on  this 
mountain  !  Is  there  a  clearing  near  us,  or  can  some 
little  one  have  strayed  from  its  parents?" 

"  Such  things  frequently  happen,"  returned  Louisa. 
"Let  us  follow  the  sounds;  it  may  be  a  wanderer 
starving  on  the  hill." 

Urged  by  this  consideration,  the  girls  pursued  with 
quick  and  impatient  steps  the  low,  mournful  sounds  that 
proceeded  from  the  forest.  More  than  once  Elizabeth 
was  on  the  point  of  announcing  that  she  saw  the  sufferer, 
when  Louisa  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and,  pointing  behind 
them,  cried  :  "  Look  at  the  dog ! " 

3.  Brave  had  been  their  companion  from  the  time  the 
voice  of  his  young  mistress  lured  him  from  his  kennel 
to  the  present  moment :  his  advanced  age  had  long  before 
deprived  him  of  his  activity. 

Aroused  by  the  cry  from  Louisa,  Miss  Temple  turned 
and  saw  the  dog  with  his  eyes  keenly  set  on  some  distant 
object,  his  head  bent  near  the  ground,  and  his  hair  actually 
rising  on  his  body  through  fright  or  anger.  He  was 
growling  in  a  low  key  and  occasionally  showing  his  teeth 
in  a  manner  that  would  have  terrified  his  mistress  had 
she  not  so  well  known  his  good  qualities. 


•^  369  8»- 

4.  "  Brave  !  "  she  said,  "  be  quiet,  Brave !  What  do 
you  see,  fellow  ?  "  At  the  sounds  of  her  voice,  the  rage  of 
the  mastiff,  instead  of  being  at  all  diminished,  was  very 
sensibly  increased.  He  stalked  in  front  of  the  ladies  and 
seated  himself  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress,  growling  louder 
than  before,  and  occasionally  giving  vent  to  his  ire  by  a 
short,  surly  barking. 

5.  "What  does  he  see  ?"  said  Elizabeth;  "there  must 
be  some  animal  m  sight." 

Hearing  no  answer  from  her  companion.  Miss  Temple 
turned  .her  head  and  beheld  Louisa,  standing  with  her 
face  whitened  to  the  color  of  death,  and  her  finger 
pointing  upward  with  a  sort  of  flickering,  convulsed 
motion. 

The  quick  eye  of  Elizabeth  glanced  in  the  direction 
indicated  by  her  friend,  where  she  saw  the  fierce  front 
and  glaring  eyes  of  a  panther  fixed  on  them  in  horrid 
malignity  and  threatening  to  leap. 

"Let  us  fly!"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  grasping  the  arm 
of  Louisa,  whose  form  yielded  like  melting  snow. 

6.  There  was  not  a  single  feeling  in  the  temperament 
of  Elizabeth  Temple  that  could  prompt  her  to  desert  a 
companion  in  such  an  extremity.  She  fell  on  her  knees 
by  the  side  of  the  inanimate  Louisa,  tearing  from  the 
person  of  her  friend,  with  instinctive  readiness,  such 
parts   of   her   dress   as   might  obstruct   her  respiration. 


-»8  370  8«- 

and   encouraging  their  only  safeguard,  the  dog,  at  the 
same  time  by  the  sounds  of  her  voice. 

''  Courage,  Brave  ! "  she  cried,  her  own  tones  beginning 
to  tremble,  ''  courage,  courage,  good  Brave !  " 

7.  A  quarter-grown  cub,  that  had  hitherto  been  unseen, 
now  appeared,  dropping  from  the  branches  of  a  sapling 
that  grew  under  the  shade  of  a  beech.  This  vicious 
creature  approached  the  dog,  imitating  the  actions  and 
sounds  of  its  parent,  but  exhibiting  a  strange  mixture 
of  the  playfulness  of  a  kitten  with  the  ferocity  of  its  race. 

Standing  on  its  hind  legs,  it  would  rend  the  bark  of 
a  tree  with  its  fore  paws  and  play  the  antics  of  a  cat; 
and  then,  by  lashing  itself  with  its  tail,  growling  and 
scratching  the  earth,  it  would  attempt  the  manifestations 
of  anger  that  rendered  its  parent  so  terrific. 

8.  All  this  time  Brave  stood  firm  and  undaunted,  his 
short  tail  erect,  his  body  drawn  backward  on  its  haunches, 
and  his  eyes  following  the  movements  of  both  the  female 
panther  and  the  cub.  At  every  gambol  played  by  the 
latter  it  approached  nigher  to  the  dog,  the  growling  of 
the  three  becoming  more  horrid  at  each  moment,  until 
the  younger  beast,  overleaping  its  intended  bound,  fell 
directly  before  the  mastiff. 

There  was  a  moment  of  fearful  cries  and  struggles,  but 
they  ended  almost  as  soon  as  commenced  by  the  cub 
appearing  in  the  air,  hurled  from  the  jaws  of  Brave  with 


-^371  8^ 

a  violence  that  sent  it  against  a  tree  so  forcibly  as  to 
render  it  completely  senseless. 

9.  Elizabeth  witnessed  the  short  struggle,  and  her 
blood  was  warming  with  the  triumph  of  the  dog,  when 
she  saw  the  form  of  the  old  panther  in  the  air,  springing 
twenty  feet  from  the  branch  of  the  beech  to  the  back  of 
the  mastiff. 

No  words  of  ours  can  describe  the  fury  of  the  conflict 
that  followed.  It  was  a  confused  struggle  on  the  dry 
leaves,  accompanied  by  loud  and  terrific  cries. 

Miss  Temple  continued  on  her  knees,  bending  over  the 
form  of  Louisa,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  animals  with  an 
interest  so  intense  that  she  almost  forgot  her  own  stake 
in  the  result.  So  rapid  and  vigorous  were  the  bounds 
of  the  panther  that  her  active  frame  seemed  constantly  in 
the  air,  while  the  dog  nobly  faced  his  foe  at  each  suc- 
cessive leap. 

10.  When  the  panther  lighted  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  mastiff,  which  was  her  constant  aim,  old  Brave,  though 
torn  with  her  claws  and  stained  with  his  own  blood  that 
already  flowed  from  a  dozen  wounds,  would  shake  off  his 
furious  foe  like  a  feather  and,  rearing  on  his  hind  legs, 
rush  to  the  fray  again  with  jaws  distended  and  a  daunt- 
less eye. 

But  age  and  his  pampered  life  greatly  disqualified  the 
noble  mastiff  for  such  a  struggle.      In  everything  but 


-^  372  8«* 

courage  lie  was  only  the  vestige  of  what  he  had  once 
been. 

11.  A  higher  bound  than  ever  raised  the  wary  and 
furious  beast  far  beyond  the  reach  of  the  dog,  who  was 
making  a  desperate  but  fruitless  effort  to  dash  at  her, 
from  which  she  alighted  in  a  favorable  position  on  the 
back  of  her  aged  foe.  For  a  single  moment  only  could 
the  panther  remain  there,  the  great  strength  of  the  dog 
returning  with  a  convulsive  effort. 

But  Elizabeth  saw,  as  Brave  fastened  his  teeth  in  the 
side  of  his  enemy,  that  the  collar  of  brass  around  his 
neck,  which  had  been  glittering  throughout  the  fray,  was 
of  the  color  of  blood,  and,  directly,  that  his  frame  was  sink- 
ing to  the  earth,  where  it  soon  lay  prostrate  and  helpless. 

Several  mighty  efforts  of  the  wildcat  to  extricate 
herself  from  the  jaws  of  the  dog  followed,  but  they 
were  fruitless  until  the  mastiff  turned  on  his  back, 
his  lips  collapsed,  and  his  teeth  loosened,  when  the  short 
convulsions  and  stillness  that  succeeded  announced  the 
death  of  poor  Brave. 

12.  Elizabeth  now  lay  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the 
beast.  There  is  said  to  be  something  in  the  front  of  the 
image  of  the  Maker  that  daunts  the  hearts  of  the  inferior 
beings  of  His  creation ;  and  it  would  seem  that  some 
such  power,  in  the  present  instance,  suspended  the  threat- 
ened blow. 


-»8  373  8«- 

The  eyes  of  the  monster  and  the  kneeling  maiden 
met  for  an  instant,  when  the  former  stooped  to  examine 
her  fallen  foe,  next  to  scent  her  luckless  cub.  From 
the  latter  examination  she  turned,  however,  with  her 
eyes  apparently  emitting  flashes  of  fire,  her  tail  lashing 
her  sides  furiously,  and  her  claws  projecting  inches  from 
her  broad  feet. 

13.  Miss  Temple  did  not  or  could  not  move.  Her 
hands  were  clasped  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  but  her 
eyes  were  still  drawn  to  her  terrible  enemy  ;  her  cheeks 
were  blanched  to  the  whiteness  of  marble,  and  her  lips 
were  slightly  separated  with  horror. 

The  moment  seemed  now  to  have  arrived  for  the 
fatal  termination,  and  the  beautiful  figure  of  Elizabeth 
was  bowing  meekly  to  the  stroke,  when  a  rustling  of 
leaves  behind  seemed  rather  to  mock  the  organs  than 
to  meet  her  ears. 

"Hist!  hist!"  said  a  low  voice,  "stoop  lower,  girl; 
your  bonnet  hides  the  creature's  head." 

14.  It  was  rather  the  yielding  of  nature  than  a  com- 
pliance with  this  unexpected  order  that  caused  the  head 
of  our  heroine  to  sink  on  her  bosom,  when  she  heard  the 
report  of  the  rifle,  the  whizzing  of  the  bullet,  and  the  en- 
raged cries  of  the  beast  which  was  rolling  ov^r  on  the 
earth,  biting  her  own  flesh  and  tearing  the  twigs  and 
branches  within   her   reach.      At  the  next  instant,  the 


-^374  8*^ 

form  of  the  Leather-stocking  rushed  by  her,  and  he 
called  aloud: 

"  Come  in,  Hector,  come  in ;  't  is  a  hard-lived  animal, 
and  may  jump  again." 

15.  The  brave  hunter  fearlessly  maintained  his  position 
in  front  of  the  girls,  notwithstanding  the  violent  bounds 
and  threatening  aspect  of  the  wounded  panther,  which 
gave  several  indications  of  returning  strength  and  ferocity, 
until  his  rifle  was  again  loaded,  when  he  stepped  up  to 
the  enraged  animal,  and,  placing  the  muzzle  close  to  her 
head,  every  spark  of  life  was  extinguished  by  the  dis- 
charge. 

The  death  of  her  terrible  enemy  appeared  to  Elizabeth 
like  a  resurrection  from  her  own  grave.  Notwithstanding 
the  fearful  aspect  of  the  panther,  the  eye  of  the  brave 
girl  had  never  shrunk  from  its  gaze  ;  and  long  after  the 
event,  the  sweetness  of  her  midnight  sleep  would  be 
disturbed,  as  her  active  fancy  conjured,  in  dreams,  the 
most  trifling  movements  of  savage  fury  that  the  beast 
had  exhibited  in  its  moment  of  power. 


GUIDE   TO   PRONUNCIATION. 


A  key  to  the  symbols  most  of  which  are  used  in  this  Reader  to  indicate 
the  pronunciation  of  the  more  difficult  words. 

I.     VOWELS. 


a  as  in 

fate 

h 

as  in  c^re 

t 

as  in 

idea 

00  as  in  food 

t      - 

senate 

e 

"     mete 

i 

u 

it 

db 

(; 

fd^t 

a      » 

fat 

t 

"     event 

i 

(.<. 

sir 

u 

ii. 

use 

a      " 

arm 

6 

"      m6t 

0 

u 

old 

t 

a 

unite 

a      " 

all 

e 

«     her 

t 

u 

obey 

u 

i( 

up 

a      " 

ask 

i 

"     ice 

6 

(( 

n6t 

ti 

(( 

mv 

11.    EQUIVALENTS. 

g;  =  6  as  in  what 

0  =  d^  as  in 

wolf 

u 

=:  d6  as  in  pull 

e  =  a 

"     there 

6  =  u 

4( 

son 

y 

=r  i 

"    fly 

1  =  e 

"     girl 

6  —  SL 

(( 

horse 

y 

=  i 

"     baby 

0  =  00"     move 

u  ==  00 

U 

rule 

in.     CONSONANTS. 

Only  the  most  difficult  consonants  in  this  Reader  are  marked  with  dia- 
critical signs.  The  following  table  may  prove  useful  to  the  teacher  for 
reference   and  for   blackboard   work. 


4j  ==  s  as  in  mige 

th  (unmarked) 

as  in  thin 

«  or  c  (unmarked)  = 

=  k  as  in  €all 

ph  =  f 

4( 

phantom 

«h  =  k            as  in 

L  sehool 

s  =  z 

(( 

is 

ch  (unmarked)    " 

child 

z  (like  s  sonant) 

U 

zone 

&  like  j                 " 

cage 

qu  (unmarked) 

(( 

quite 

S  (hard)                " 

i6t 

X  ==  g-z 

(( 

exact 

n  =  ngr                " 

ink 

X  (unmarked) =ks  " 

vex 

tir                           « 

tlr6m 

Certain  vowels,  as  a  and  e,  when  obscured  and  turned  toward  the  neutral 
sound,  are  marked  thus,  a,  e,  etc.     Silent  letters  are  italicized. 


SC3  376£:^ 


WORD    LIST. 


3X«C 


The  following  is  an  alphabetical  list  of  the  most  difficult 
words  used  in  this  Reader. 

Many  of  the  less  difficult  words  that  have  been  used  in  the 
Primer,  First,  Second,  and  Third  Eeaders  are  omitted. 

This  list  may  be  made  the  basis  of  a  great  variety  of  exer- 
cises in  correct  pronunciation,  distinct  enunciation,  rapid  spell- 
ing, language  lessons,  and  review  work. 

For  an  explanation  of  the  diacritical  marks,  see  preceding 
page. 


a  ban'  doned 
ab'  ject 
ab  rupt'  ly 
ac  9ept'  ange 
ac'  91  dent 
ac  com'  pa  med 
ac  com'  plish 
ac  c6rd'  mg  ly 
Sc'  cti  rate  ly 
ac  ciis'  tomed 
a  chieve' 
ac  knoivV  edged 
ac  quamt'  an^e 


activ'ity 
ac'  tu  al  ly 
a  dapt' 
ad  her'  ent 
ad'  mi  ra  ble 
ad  mi  ra'  tion 

(sh) 

a  dopt'  ed 

ad  ven'  tures 

J. 

ad'  ver  tis  ing 
af  firmed' 
a  gAast' 
agil'ity 


ag  1  ta'  tion 

(sh) 

a  lac'  ri  ty 
a  light'  ed 
allud'ed 

aZms'  house 

J. 

al  ter'  na  tive 
a  maze'  ment 
an'  ges  tor 

an'  guish 

(w) 

an'  1  mate 
an'  nu  al  ly 
an  ti9'  1  pa  tive 


-^377  el- 


an iique^ 

(ek) 

anx  i'  S  ty 
anx'  ious  ly 

(sh) 

a  pol  6  get'  ic  al  ly 

a  poF  6  gy 

ap  par'  ent  ly 

appear'an^e 

ap'  pe  tite 

ap  plawd' 

ap  proached' 

ar  bu'  tiis 

ar'  dent 

ar'  ti  cle 

ar  ti  f  i'  cial 

as  gend'  ed 

as  ^ent' 

as  Qer  tarn' 

a  slant' 

as  sem'  blage 

as  sents' 

as  sev'  er  at  ed 

as  sist'  ange 

as  sur'  an9e 

(ah)  " 

as  ton'  ish  ment 
a  thwart' 
at'  mos  phere 
at  tamed' 
at'  ti  ttide 


aw'  di  en^e 
aw'  gers 
aw  ro'  ra 
a^^s  tere' 
aw'  thors 
a  void'  ed 
Sill  turn'  nal 
az'  ure 

(Zll)* 

bal'  an^e 
bal'  lads 
ba  rowche' 

(8) 

bar  ri  cade' 

ba?/'  6  nets 

beau'  te  ous 

be  com'  mg 

be  gwil'  mg 

be  hav'  ior 
(J? 
bel'  lows 

ben'  e  fit 

be  nev'  6  lent 

be  seech'  mg 

be  wil'  dered 

be  winched' 

blotch'  es 

bod'  y  gward 

bos'  6m 

bowl'  der  - 

bo2^'  le  yard 


brag'  gart 

breech'  es 

(t) 

bril'  Zian^e 

(y? 

bul'  warks 

bur'  1  al 

(6)     " 

bush'  els 

X 

bu^ch'  er 

cab'  bag  ^s 

cad'  dis 

cal  cu  la'  tions 

(sh)      "• 

cal'  1  CO 
ca  na'  ry 
can'  ni  bals 
can'  non 
can'  o  py 
ca'  per  ing 
cap' 1 tal 
cap' tain 
cap'  tive 
car'  bine 
ca  ress' 
ca  rouse' 
casqwes 

(k) 

cat'  a  ract 
cat'  e  €hism 
caw'  tioiis  ly 


-?<j378S?- 


cav  a  her' 
cav'  al  ry  man 
9eF  e  brat  ed 
qeV  er  y 
Qem'  e  ter  y 
9en'  tu  ry 
9er'  tarn  ly 
cha  le^' 

(8)        (a) 

chaZk'  Ing 
chan'  nel 
€har'  ac  ter  ized 
char'  ger 
che^r'  1  ly 
cher'  ished 
chev'  ron 

(8) 

chim'  ney 
chiv'  al  ry 

(8) 

cliSc'  6  lates 

€li6rds 

J. 

€lio'  riis 

Qir  cu  la'  tion 

Oh) 

^iv'  1  lized 
clar'  1  f  led 
cl%  to'  ni  a 
clus'  tered 
co'  coa  nut 
cof '  fee 
col'  lege 


col'  Ziers 

(y)    "^ 

col'  6  nists 
col'  ored 
com'  fort  a  ble 
com  meng'  mg 
com  mis'  sion  ers 

(sh) 

c5m  mu  ni  ca'  tion 

(sh) 

com  pan'  ions 

(y)    "^ 

com'  pass  es 
com  plamt' 
com  pre  hend'  ed 
com'  rade 
con  Qern'  mg 
con'  fi  deng  es 
con  fi  den'  tial  ly 

(shf 

c6n  fined' 

con  gealed' 

con  grat  u  la'  tions 

(sh)      "■ 

con' jiirer 
con'  qwer  or 

(k) 

con'  science 

(sh)^ 

con'  se  crate 
c5n  sid'  er 
con  signed' 
con  sole' 
con  stel  la'  tion 


con'  sti  tut  mg 
con  tempt' 
con'  ti  nent 
con  ve?/'  anQe 

(a) 

con  viil'  sive 

c6r'  p6  ral 

cor  re  spond'  mg 

cor'  ri  dor 

cor  rob'  6  rat  ed 

c5s'  tume 

cowghed 

(f) 

coun'  (pi 
coun'  sel  or 
coun'  te  nange 
coiir  a'  geoiis 
cowrs'  mg 
cour'  te  sy 
cov'  er  lids 
cox'  com& 
cran'  ber  ry 
cred'  it  a  bly 
crim'  1  nal 
cri'  sis 
crit'  ic  al 
cr5c'  6  dile 
crooned 
cruise 
cruteh'  es 
crys'  tal  lize 


-?3  379e:l- 


cu  ri  Ss^  1  ty 
cur^  rant 

daffodil 
dam'  ti  \j 
dan'  ger  ous 
dawnt'  less  ly 
de  bai^cli' 
de6t'  ors 
dec  la  ra'  tion 

(sh) 

dec'  6  rat  ed 
ded  1  ca'  tion 

(sh) 

de  grad'  ed 
delib'erating 
del'icate 
de  li'  cious 

(sh) 

de'  mbns 
de  scend'  ant 
de  scry' 
de  si^'n' 
des'  ig  nat  ed 
des'  6  late 
des  per  a'  tion 

(sh) 

de  spised' 
des  tina' tion 

(sh) 

de  ter'  mined 
dex  ter'  i  ty 


di'  a  logue 
die'  tion  a  ry 

(sh) 

dif '  f  1  cul  ty 
dig'  ni  fled 
di  min'  ish. 
dis  a'  bled 
dis  a  gree'  a  ble 
dis  con  tent'  ed 
dis  cour'  aged 
dis  cuss'  mg 
dis  m  clined' 
dis  mount'  ed 
dis  posed' 
dis  p6  si'  tion 

(sh) 

dis'  SI  pat  ed 
dis  solved' 
distmct'ly 
dis  tin'  guished 

(w) 

di  ver'  SI  fled 
di  vid'  ed 
di  vine' 
do  mes'  tic 
doub'  lets 
dra  goon' 
dra'  per  y 

drai^ght 

(f) 

drear'  y 
drow'  sy 


dry'  ad 
du'  bi  ous  ly 
dwarf 

ea'  ger  ly 
ea'  glet 
e  con'  6  my 
ec'  sta  sy 
ed'  dy  mg 
ed  u  ca'  tion 

(sh) 

e  lab'  6  rate 
e  las  tiQ'  1  ty 
el'  e  gant 
el'  e  ment 
el'  e  phants 
el'  6  quent 
embel'lishes 
e  merged' 
em'  1  nenge 
emit' 
e  mo'  tion 

(sh) 

emp'  tied 


en  am 


ored 


en  camped' 
en  Qir'  cled 
en  cour'  ag  mg  ly 
en  dan'  ger 
en  dear'  ments 
en  deav'  or 


^3  380E>- 

Sn'  er  gies 

ex'  1  gen  qy 

e  nor'  mous 

ex  pe  di'  tion 

enrol/ed^ 

(sh) 

V^          f      1    'V                       — 

ex  per'  i  ment 

en'  ter  prise 
en  thu'  SI  asm 

ex  pla  na'  tion 

(sh) 

en  tranQed' 

ex'  qui  site  ly 

en  treat'  ed 

ex'  tri  cate 

e  qua'  tor 

e  quipped' 

faiVily 

es  cape' 

faZ'  con 

es  c6rt'  ed 

fal'termg 

es  pe'  cial  ly 

familiar'ity 

(shf 

(y) 

es  tab'  lish  ments 

far'  ri  ers 

eter'nity 

fatal'itj^ 

evap'orated 

f  ath'  6m 

6  vent'  f ul 

fa  tigwed' 

(e) 

fawn 

evidently 

exact'^ly 

fa'  vor  a  ble 

ex  am'  med 

fa'  vor  ite 

ex  am'  pie 

feath'ery 

ex  9eed'  mg  ly 

feigned 

ex'  Qel  lent 

(a) 

ex  qess' 

fel'on 

ex  claimed' 

fer'tile 

ex  clud'  ed 

fiend'  ish 

ex  cilr'  sions 

fig'  ure 

(sh)      ■" 

fis'  sures 

Sx  $  cu'  tion 

(8h)      *         -^ 

(sh) 

floun'  dered 

^x  ^awst'  ed 

flour' ish 

flut'  ter  mg 
f  o'  Irage 
for'  age 
for'  eign 
fore'  lock 
f  5r'  tu  nate 
foun'  dered 
frac'  ture 
fra'  grange 
francs 

fre  quent'  ed 
fre'  quent  ly 
fu'  ner  al 
fur'  long 

ga'  bles 
gam'  bol  ing 
gar'  ret 
gawz'  y 
gen  er  a'  tions 

(sh)      ■" 

gen'  er  ous 

gen'  ius 

(y) 
gen'  u  ine 
ge  og'  ra  phy 
ges'  ture 
gAast'  ly 
gi  gan'  tic 
glis'  ifened 
^nat6?ed 


-^381&J- 


gov'  em  ment 
grad'  u  al  ly 
grad  u  a'  tion 

(sh) 

grat'  1  tude 
grav^ 1 ty 
green^  sward 
grew' some 

griz'  zkd 
gro'  ger  les 
grosch'  en 
gward'  1  an 

gyp'  sy 

hag'  gard 
hsmd'  ker  chief 
ha  rangi^'  ing 
har'  mo  ny 
ha^ch'  ets 
ha^^nt'  mg 
heath'  er 
heav'  en  ly 
hem'  lock 
her'  it  age 
her'  mit  age 
he  ro'  ic 
hes  1  ta'  tion 

(sh) 

hid'  e  ous 
his  to'  ri  an 
hoarse 


hoi' 1  day 
Aon'  ored 
horde 
ho  ri'  zon 
hos'  pi  ta  ble 
hos'  tel 
hov'  er  mg 
hyp'  6  crite 

iQe'  bergs 

1  den'  ti  ty 

i'  dyls 

ig'  no  range 

il  Iti'  mined 

im'  age 

im  ag  1  na'  tion 

(sh) 

im'  1  tat  mg 
im  me'  di  ate  ly 
im  mense' 
im  pas'  sive  ly 
im  pa'  tient 

(shT 

im'  pie  ments 
implies' 
im  plor'  mg 
im  p6r'  tant 
im  pres'  szon 

(sh) 

im'  pu  denge 
m  an'  i  mate 
m  aw'  gu  ral 


m  Qes'  sant  ly 
m  con  qeiy'  a  ble 
in  con  sid'  er  ate 
m  cor  rupt'  i  ble 
in  creased' 
in  de  pend'  enge 
m  dif '  f  er  ent 
m  dig'  nant 
m  dis  tinct' 
m  di  vid'  u  al 
m  duged' 
m  dulg'  mg 
m  diis'  tri  ous 
in'  fa  mous 
in  f  e'  ri  or 
in'  f  1  nite  ly 
in'  flu  enge 
in  for  ma'  tion 
ingulf      ^^^^ 
m  hab'  it  ed 
in  her'  it 
m'  no  Qenge 
m  nu'  mer  a  ble 
m  quir'  mg  ly 
m  quis'  1  tive 
in  spired' 
m  struct' 
in  sur'  gents 
m  tel'  li  genge 
in  ten'  si  ty 


m'  ter  est 

in  ter'  mi  na  ble 

m  ter  rog'  a  tive  ly 

m  ter  riipt' 

in  tim'  1  date 

in  toned' 

in  trm'  sic 

m  tro  duQed' 

m  tti'  1  tive  ly 

in'  va  lid 

m  va'  ri  a  bly 

in  vol'  un  ta  ry 

ir'  ri  ta  ble 

i'  sm  glass 

is'  land 

jar'  gon 
ja?/n'  ty 
jeop' ard  y 
jour'  ney 
jo'  VI  al 
joy'  oils 
inn'  ior 

^nap'  sack 
^nolZ 

ko'  bolds 

J. 

la' borer 
land'  scape 


-iC3  382£:^ 

Ian'  guage 

man'  sion 

(w) 

(sh) 

Ian'  guid 

man  u  f  ac'  ture 

(w) 

man'  u  script 

lapel' 

mar'  gin 

lap'  pets 

mar'  i  ners 

laps'  es 

J. 
mar'  vel  ous 

lat'ti9e 

mat  1  nee' 

law'  re  ate 

(a) 

leagi^es 

mat'  tress  es 

lei'  sure 

ma  ttir'  er 

(zh) 

mauve 

lev'eled 

(o) 

lib'erty 

mel'an€lioly 

Kege'  man 
Im'en  ^ 

mel'  6  dy 
me  mo'  ri  al 

^  t    A.    J.    \^ 

li'  qz^or 

mer'  qe  na  ry 
mere'  ly 

lit'eral 

mes'  sen  ger 

lit'eriry 

mien 

litbe 

mil'  1  ta  ry 

loach' es 

mm'  strel  sy 

liil'  la  bies 

mm' net 

lurk'mg" 

mi  nute' 

liis'tily 

mir'  a  cle 

mis'  chief 

mag  a  zine' 

mis'  chie  vous 

(e) 

mag  nif '  i  Qent 

mis'  er  a  ble 

J.                      /-^ 

mam  tarn' 

moc'  ca  sm 

•        'V^        t      1^ 

mod  1  fi  ca'  tion 

majes' tic 

(sW 

ma  lig'  ni  ty 

mon'  ar€h 

H3S83BI- 


mon'  strous 
mon'  u  ment 

mul'  ti  tudes 

J. 

mur^  der  ous 
mur'  mur  mg 

mu  se'  um 

J. 

-mvJ  SIC  al 
mus'  mg  ly 
mus'  ket  ry 
mus  tache' 

(s) 

mys'  ter  y 
na'  tion  al 

(sh) 

nat'  ti  ral 
neg'  es  sa  ry 
neg  lect'  ed 
neigh'  bors 

(a)  ""   ^ 

neighed 

(a) 

neph'  ew 

(u) 

nes'  tied 
niche 


6  bliggd' 
bb  scure' 
ob  ser  va'  tions 

X  J. 

(8h) 

oc  ca'  sion  al  ly 

(zh) 

5c  cur'  renQ  es 


of  f  1  9ers 
of  f  i'  cial  ly 

(shf 

oppSrtu'nity 
op'  p6  site 
op  pressed' 
or'  ang  es 

(6) 

6  ra'  tion 

(Sll) 

6r'  €lies  tra 
6  rig'  1  nal 
ou'  sel 
oys'  ter 

pag'  1  fy 
pag'  eant 
pal'  ag  es 
pal  1  sade' 
pal'  lor 
pam'  phlets 
pan'  to  mime 
pa  rade' 
par'  a  dise 
pa  ral'  y  sis 
par'  a  lyzed 
par'  rots 
par  tiQ'  1  pat  ed 
pas'  tur  age 
pa  thet'  ic 
pa'  thos 
pa'  tienge 


pa  tri  W  ic 
pat'  ron  iz  mg 
pea'  cock 

pe  ctil  iar'  i  ty 

(y) 

pen'  al  ty 
pen'  e  trat  ed 
pen'  sion  ers 

(sh) 

per  QezVed' 
per'  fume 
per  pet'  u  al  ly 
per  plex'  i  ty 
per  se  ver'  ange 
per'  son  ag  es 
phi'  al 
phrase 
pi'  geon 
pil'  grim  age 
pil'  laged 

pin'  ion 

(y) 

pi  6  neer' 
pir  ou  et'  tmg 
pit'  e  ous 
pith'y 
pla^' id 
plazd 

plume         .    * 
p6  et'  ic  al 
p6  lite'  ly 


-43  384E::H- 


pop  u  lar'  1  ty 
por  tent'  oils 
por'  trazt 
p(5s'  1  tive  If 
pos  sessed' 
post'  script 
p6  iW  to^s 
prac'  tiQe 
pr&yers 
pre'  cioiis 

(8h) 

preQ'  1  ipiqe 
pre  die'  a  ment 
prej'  ti  diQg 
pre  pos'  1  tor 
pres'  ent  ly 
pres'  sure 

(Sll) 

pre  va^led' 
pre'  VI  oils  ly 
prm'  91  pie 
priv'  1  leg  es 
pro  Qeed'  mgs 
pro  Qes'  sion 

(sll) 

pro  clam' 
pro  di'  gzous 
prom'  1  nent 
prompt'  ly 
prbv'  mqe 
piib  li  ca'  tion 

(sh) 


pub'  lisbed 
punch'  eons 
pu'  pil 
pur'  pie 
pyre 

quar'  rel 
qui'  e  tude 
quiv'  ered 
quo  ta'  tion 

(sh) 

ra'  di  ant 
mi'  ment 
raz'  sms 

JL  X 

ra  pid'  1  ty 
rap'  ture 
ra  vine' 

(e) 

re  ac'  tion 

(sh) 

r^  al'  1  ty- 
re al  1  za'  tion 

(sh) 

re'  al  ized 
re  ap  peared' 
re  buke' 
re  cap'  ture 
re  ged'  mg 
re'  Qent  ly 
re  9ep'  tion 

(sh) 

rec'  og  nized 


rec  SI  lee'  tions 

(sh)      ■" 

rec'  Sn  giled 
rec'  to  ry 
ref  ti  gee' 
reg'  1  ment 
reg'  ti  lar 
re  hears'  al 
rein'  deer 

(a) 

re  joig'  mg 
re  joined' 
re  la'  tion 

(sh) 

rel'  ics 
re  li'  gious 
re  luc'  tant 
re  mark'  a  ble 
re  mod'  eled 
rep  re  sents' 
re  proach'  f  ul  ly 
re  pulsed' 
res'  cti  ing 
re  sem''bled 
res  6  lu'  tion 

(sh) 

re  sounds' 

J.  X 

re  spect'  a  ble 
re  spect'  f ul 
res  pi  ra'  tion 

(sh) 

res  iir  rec'  tion 

(sh) 


-43  385E>- 


rev  e  la^  tion 

(sh) 

rev'  els 

J. 

rev'  er  enqe 
rev'  er  ent  ly 
re  viv'  al 
re  vlv^d' 
rib'  bons 
ri  die'  u  lous 
rig'  or 
ring'  lets 
ro  biist' 
rogi^'  isb  ly 
ro  man'  tic 
ru'  bi  cund 
rud'  di  ness 

sa'  cred 
sal'  a  ry 
sal  u  ta'  tion 

(sh) 

sa  lute' 
san'  dais 
scald'  ed 
scam'  per  mg 
scarQe'  ly 
scarf 
seep'  ter 
S€li6on'  er 
scis'  sors 
scowl 


screech'  mg 

scythe 

seared 

sedg'  J 

seiz'  mg 

sem  1  Qir'  cu  lar 

sen  sa'  tion 

(sh) 

sen'  SI  tive 
sen' try 
se'  ri  ous  ly 
shat!  ter  mg 

sheathes 
sheer 
shep'  Aerd 
sher'  lif 
shzeld 
shiv'  er  mg 
shoi^l'  ders 
shriig'  gmg 
sTg'  ni  fy 
sm'  ew  y 

(u) 

sm'  gu  lar 
sm'  IS  ter 
sit  u  a'  tion 

(sh) 

skew'  er 

slsbugh'  ter 
smoth'  er 


sol'  dier 

sol'  1  ta  ry 
sol'  1  tude 
sor'  rel 
sows 

sov'  er  ei^'n 
spec'  ta  cles 
spir'  it  u  al 
splm'  tered 
spon  ta'  ne  ous 
sport'  ive 
spumed 
squad 
squalZ 
squirm'  mg 
squir'  rels 
stacks 
star  va'  tion 

(sh) 

sti'  fled 

stir'rup 

stom'  a^h 

style 

sub  lime'  ly 

sub  mis'  sion 

(sh) 

sub  scrip'  tion 

(sh) 

sub'  se  quent 
sub  sid'  ed 
siic  9ess'  ful 


-^sseet- 


suf  fiQe' 
siif  fi'  cient 

suf'  f  6  cat  ing 
svLg  gest'  ed 
sur'  fage 
sur'  geon 
sur  prise' 
sur  Yey' 

(a) 

sus  pect'  ed 
swath'  mg 
swoop 
sylph 

sym'  bol  iz  es 
sym'  pa  thized 
sym'  pa  thy 
syr'  up 

tag  1  tur'  ni  ty 
tai'  ent 
tawnt 
ten'  der  ly 
ter  rif '  ic 
ter'  ri  fied 
tAa'  ler 
thatched 
the'  a  ter 
ther  mom'  e  ter 
thick'  et 
thieves 


thim'  bled 
thor'  ough  ly 
thresh'  old 
throng 

thriish'  es 

J. 

ti  mid'  1  ty 
to  bac'  CO 

to  ma'  toes 

J. 

tor'  rent 
towr'  ists 
tran  quil'  li  ty 
trans  formed' . 
trans  par'  ent 
trav'  el  ers 
trea'  cle 
treas'  ures 

(zh) 

trel'  lis 

tre  men'  doiis 

tri'  iimph 

tro'  phies 

tu  mul'  til  ous  ly 

tur'  moil 

twi'  li^At 

twinge 

tyr'  an  ny 

un  a  void'  a  ble 
iin  c5n'  sc^ous 

un  cowth' 


nn  defiled' 
un  der  mine' 
iin'  du  lat  mg 
ii'  ni  f  6rm 
u'  ni  verse 
iin  mis  tak'  a  ble 
iin  pop'  ti  lar 
iin  speak'  a  ble 
iin  u'  su  al 

(zh)    "" 

iin  wea'  ried  ly 
tir'  chm 

va'  cant  ly 
val'  u  a  ble 
va'  pors 
va'  ri  oiis 
va'  ry  mg 
ven'  er  ^  ble 
ven'  ture  some 
ver'  diet 
ver'  dure 
ver  si  fi  ca'  tion 
Vict'  ual      ^^^^ 
vzew'  less 

(ti) 

Vlg'll 

vi'  6  lent 
vis'  1  ble 
vis'  ion 

(zh) 

vi'  t^l 


-^387£:^ 


viv'  id 
vol'  ume 
voy'  ag  es 

wa'  ger 
wsiist'  coats 
war'  fare 
war'  rant 

war'  rior 

(J? 

weap'  6ns 
wea'  ri  er 


wea'  sel 
weath'  er 
weir 
we^rd 
wher'  ry 
w^eld 
wim'  pie 
wir'y 
wist'  f  ul  ly 
won'  der  f  ul 
won'  drous 
wool'  len 


worst'  ed 

wmipped 

wmth. 

ivreaihs 

WTin'  kling 

wioughi 

jeo'  men 
yzeld 

ze'  nith 


An'  to  ny 

Ba^'ard 
Ben  o'  ni 
Beth'  le  hem 
Bjorn'  son 

(Byurn'  son) 

Bjorn'  stjerne 

(Byurn' styfirne) 

Bow'  doin 
Brit'  am 
Bur  goyne' 
Bu  tra'  go 
Bysshe 

Came 


Proper  Names. 

Cap'  ri  c6m 
Car  no^' 
Chat'  ^am 
Co  lum'  bus 
Cru'  soe 

Dev'  on  shire 
Di'  siz 

(e) 

Di  e'  go 

(e)(a) 

Di'  mas 

(e) 

Ed'  m  burgh 

(btlrrS) 

^u  gene' 


Ew'  mg 

(a) 

Gal' a  had 
Geof '  fry 
Get' tys  burg 
Gil'  pin 

Hsiw'  thorne 
Ho  ra'  ti  a 
Hugh''''' 
Hiins'  don 

Is'  ra  el 

Jack'  a  napes 


^3  388B^ 


JSs'  sa  mine 

Jew'  ish 

(ft) 
Jo  si'  kh 

Ju'an 

Jti  li  an'  a 

Jti'  ni  per 


La  fay  St^e' 
Lann^s 

4. 

Le  6  no'  ra 
Lm'  coZn 
Loi^'  IS 
Ijowe^  stoft 
Lyd'i  a 

Mad  a  gab'  car 
Mar'  mi  on 
Mo'  ha^wk 


Montreal' 
Mo  zam  biqwe' 

(ek) 

Na  o'  mi 
Na  po'  le  on 
Na  than'  i  el 
Ni€h'  6  las 

Ot't6 

PaZm'  er 
Pe'  6  ny 
Phelps 
Por'  tu  gal 

Que  bee' 

Ra'  leigh 


Rat'  is  bon 
Ros'  a  Ke 

Scapg'  goat 
Sew'  aU 

(a)    ^ 
Som'  ers  by 

Spof '  ford 

Spragwg 

Stock'  holm 

Swe'  d^n 

Ten'  ny  son 
Tetuan'^ 
Thti  rm'  gi  an 
Trm'  1  ty 
Tul' liver 

West'  min  ster 
Worces'  ter 


YC  49860 


M3979V 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


Giim-ar*coMPAtir 


m    PRBS3    m 


1 


tmm 


